


catching fire in a devil's whisper

by scoups_ahoy



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Brief Physical Abuse, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, First Time, First time I've used that tag, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Smut, Toxic Relationships, Violence, just wanna point out that jeongcheol are wholesome as can be in this okay thanks, lmao that's an understatement, the major character death is a villain but that villain is a svt member so take that how you will, wonhui too :(((
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 93,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoups_ahoy/pseuds/scoups_ahoy
Summary: Paris, 1879.Yoon Jeonghan is a rising opera star, trained and coached by a mysterious ‘angel of music’ who might be more wicked than Jeonghan could ever dream.  This angel of music, a man, known to the rest of the theater as the Phantom of the Opera, harbors a sick, dangerous obsession with Jeonghan, an obsession that borders on madness.  When Jeonghan’s childhood sweetheart returns to his life as the opera house's new patron and vies for the young man’s affection as well, the Phantom is enraged.  He plunges the opera house into his own twisted game of control, Jeonghan right in the middle of it all.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Yoon Jeonghan, Jeon Wonwoo/Kim Mingyu, Jeon Wonwoo/Wen Jun Hui | Jun, Kim Mingyu/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 72
Kudos: 173





	1. prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> jshjk i really need to stop posting new aus BUT this one is at least a third done already so yay!
> 
> tbh this is my biggest passion project - i've been working on it since january 2019. but before we begin, some notes.
> 
> #1 - the relationships between mingyu & jeonghan and mingyu & wonwoo are NOT supposed to be models of healthy relationships in any way, shape, or form and i don't plan on writing them that way.  
> #2 - this fic follows the plot of the musical/movie fairly closely (but if you are unfamiliar with it that's okay! i do my best to explain everything) but i have rewritten it for a more modern audience and way of thinking.  
> #3 - honestly mingyu stans i am so sorry omg you might end up hating mingyu in the end and i am SO sorry pls keep in mind that i love him very very much.  
> #4 - heed the tags. i tried my best to tag everything and if i miss something i will add it. but this is gonna get dark. i'm apologizing to jeonghan in advance lmao
> 
> tw: this fic will deal in depth with themes of abuse (emotional/psychological, minor physical), manipulation, etc, and the resulting trauma. so if that in any way is triggering for you i would highly suggest not reading. but of course you know yourself best.
> 
> while involving real people, this au is a work of fiction!! which means i view said real people as simply characters, and i do not see these characters as accurate reflections of their irl counterparts. they are here simply to fill a role, to tell a story.
> 
> oof. okay enjoy!! <3

**prologue.**

_Paris, 1900_

Jeonghan is alone when he wakes up.

It’s not unfamiliar but every single time he awakens and Seungcheol isn’t there, for a brief moment his soul fills with dread. It goes straight to his heart and makes it pound in a way that’s disturbingly still so familiar - tightens his lungs, his limbs. Truly, it’s an awful way to start almost every morning but he will never tell Seungcheol. He feels enough guilt already; the last thing Jeonghan wants is to add more to the burdens his sweet husband already bares.

And besides, the sensations cease as soon as Jeonghan sits up and listens for the soft sounds of a fountain pen scratching on paper down the hall and then a smile will touch his face. Every time. And this morning is no exception. He sits against the headboard, blankets pooling around his thighs, and just listens. He can picture Seungcheol at his desk, the window in front of it wide open to let in as much light as possible. Curly hair falling into his eyes the way it did when he was twenty years old - and he'll stop writing every few minutes to brush it back with a light huff. A glass of water beside him, increasingly untouched the more he writes, the deeper into his work he gets. From here, the sound of his pen is gentle, comforting - everything about Seungcheol is comforting, Jeonghan has come to learn - and it helps the panic. He focuses on it until his breathing returns to normal, until his heart stops echoing through his body. He focuses on it until he feels ready to begin his day.

Really, he knows he ought to be used to this by now: this has been his husband’s routine since long before they were married but Jeonghan has never been able to shake the trepidation that comes with being alone.

Not for twenty years.

Heaving a soft sigh at the inconvenience of getting out of bed, Jeonghan goes about his own routine: he opens the bedroom window and stretches. Takes a moment to just look out at the sprawling city beyond their estate. How much the city has changed in the forty-one years Jeonghan has been alive and living in it, and he's seen much of it; lovely acres of meadows and stately homes, grimy slums, cramped areas near the center. From here he's all but certain he can see the roof of the opera house; in his head he knows it's too far away, too deep within that city, but it's always on his mind. In the shadows in his heart and soul, it is there.

Along with so much else.

Jeonghan sighs once more and heads down the hall to his husband’s study without so much as fixing his hair or changing out of his bedclothes. There would be no point in doing so, he decided long ago; Seungcheol has seen him at his lowest point and still adores him. So Jeonghan enters the study and greets Seungcheol with a kiss to his scarred cheek, rubs his knotted shoulders until he sets down his pen.

Work can wait.

“Good morning, my love,” Seungcheol whispers, turning his head toward Jeonghan’s for a sweet, soft kiss. “Did you sleep well?”

Every day of his life, Jeonghan is in awe of Seungcheol and his handsomeness. How he still looks so young after all these years, even with age clinging to his face and hair and body the way it is. That youthful spark he carried in his eyes decades ago remains, and it renders Jeonghan speechless for a moment, stroking his cheek as he simply _looks_ at him. Not for the first time in his life - and he knows it won't be the last - the thought crosses Jeonghan's mind that he is lucky to have Seungcheol at his side.

“I did.” He leans in for another kiss, soul always longing to just be near Seungcheol in any capacity. Sometimes it’s intense, resulting in bouts of passion that leave them both breathless and spent. But other times, like now, it’s gentler and Jeonghan just wants his touch. Just wants to be soothed. “What are we doing today, darling?”

Seungcheol sighs and the air shifts. The tension in his body returns tenfold - Jeonghan feels it beneath his hands - and panic begins to resettle inside Jeonghan, wisps of it clouding his mind.

There’s only one thing that makes Seungcheol this uneasy.

“Love,” he whispers, reaching for Jeonghan with hands that do not tremble, that have never trembled. No, they’ve always held Jeonghan so close, so steady. Even in his darkest moments. So he trusts them now, just like he did back then, and entwines his fingers with his husband’s. “They’re tearing down the opera house this week.”

They received the news of its closure sometime last month, right around Jeonghan’s forty-first birthday, and ever since then both of them kept insisting they needed to visit (well, Seungcheol mostly but Jeonghan mentioned it a couple times once he began to come around to the idea). But never once have they actually made the trip out. And now that this could very well be their last chance...

Jeonghan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Tries to fight against the fear churning his stomach, twisting his heart. “I don’t think I can go.” His voice comes out broken.

“Love, we talked about this.” He squeezes Jeonghan’s hands, runs gentle thumbs over his knuckles. After so many years of this sort of comfort, Jeonghan is surprised it still resonates within him the way it does. But, as long as he lives, he will never turn it away; he will melt into his husband and let him care for him. “It could be good for you, to return and get some sort of finality. Maybe you’d - you’d finally move on. The way we all wish you would’ve years ago.”

We all. Chan, Seokmin, Soonyoung, Jisoo, Seungkwan, Hansol, Minghao, Jihoon. Wonwoo and Junhui. Seungcheol too. And… and Jeonghan himself.

Oh how he wishes he could purge this anguish from his mind.

And now he has the means. But does he have the strength?

He squeezes his eyes shut at the thoughts that come to him, thoughts of darkness and fear, and he finds it harder to breathe. “Seungcheol…”

“Listen to me, love, please.” He shifts in his chair, leaning in so that their foreheads touch. Even if Jeonghan won't look at him, even if they have been through this same conversation, though different variations, countless times. “I know you’re still so scared. And that’s why I think we should visit today. One last time. It’s been twenty years - he’s long gone, my love. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Tears burn in Jeonghan’s closed up throat, threatening to fall. And he knows that, if they do, Seungcheol would wipe them away. Like he always has. Always will. But is that enough? “I don’t think I can,” he says again.

“I know you can,” Seungcheol whispers. “And I’ll be there with you every step of the way. Just like I was back then."

Jeonghan pulls away and looks at his husband. At the soft lines around his eyes brought on by age and stress, the warmth in his gaze. The gathering of scars on his right cheek, ranging from above his brow to his chin. They were given to him by a force as evil as they've ever known, and Jeonghan kisses them every day. The trust that rests between the two of them is stronger than anything else he's ever known; the love they share triumphed over darkness itself years ago. And Jeonghan knows it still can, as terrified as he might be. So with a heavy breath and words that sound more courageous than he feels, he murmurs, “You’re right. I’m - I’m tired of it all. I just… I hope it works.”

“It will.”

Seungcheol has always been the more hopeful between the two of them.

Twenty years later, everything is exactly the way Jeonghan remembers. Well, perhaps not _exactly_ the way he remembers; the last time he saw the opera house it was still lit up in what had to have been a million candles, the paint job inside and out relatively new, the theater filled with people - singers and dancers, stagehands and spectators alike. Now it sits in morbid darkness, empty, a mere shadow of what it used to be. Despite everything that happened here, the sight of the opera house in such a sad state of disrepair tugs at Jeonghan’s heart. This had been his home for so _long_ , and now look at it. Abandoned and filled with phantoms, both mortal and imagined.

He shivers.

There’s a soft sigh from beside him and Jeonghan looks over at his husband, who meets his gaze with a carefully guarded expression. No doubt this visit is almost as painful for Seungcheol as it is for Jeonghan, albeit for somewhat different reasons, but it’s important for them both to return here. _Closure_ , or so Wonwoo – everyone - has been insisting on. And it sounds nice, but Jeonghan isn’t certain he’s ready. Even after he’d agreed this morning, he’d dressed with shaking hands and a pounding heart. God, just the thought itself - 

“Jeonghan.”

Seungcheol’s voice pulls him from his reverie and he blinks, registering his husband’s eyes on him, one of them partially closed, as if half-winking, from the scar that mars the outside corner of it. “I - yes?”

With another sigh Seungcheol reaches out and takes his hand in his, bringing it to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. Such a sweet, intimate action still makes him smile, even after twenty years. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“What makes you think I don’t want to?”

“My love,” he says in that tone Jeonghan knows well, the one he reserves for moments like these: when Jeonghan is in denial. “We’ve been sitting in the carriage close to ten minutes.”

It’s Jeonghan’s turn to sigh and he looks back at the opera house, Seungcheol’s thumb stroking along his knuckles once more. For so long he has associated this place with shadows, with suffering and death. For so long he has dreamed of returning to this place, nightmares in which he is imprisoned again in those lightless, morbidly familiar cellars, railing against the darkness he fought so hard to be free of. For so long he has avoided this place for the fears of what would await him.

Squeezing Seungcheol’s hand, he takes a deep breath. “I’m ready,” he whispers.


	2. one: open the doors to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all the love you've given this so far! so i've caved and decided to post chapter one early lmao. i'm just so excited!!
> 
> i hope everything makes sense to those who've never seen the movie or listened to the musical but i'll be expanding on more stuff as the fic goes on!
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> (also: this fic is gonna be a tad hypersexual just like the musical/movie, at least between some of the relationships, because it's a pretty important theme. so keep that in mind lol)

**one: open the doors to hell**

_Paris, 1879_

_“Jeonghan.”_

The voice was hypnotic, drawing him from the depths of his deep sleep with two simple syllables. Like instinct.

_“Jeonghan.”_

He opened his eyes and was greeted by darkness. Everything else started coming into focus, then; the soft snores and deep breathing of the others asleep in the room; the slightly moldy, certainly dank smell that always permeated the dancers’ dormitory; the cold night air seeping through his thin blanket, even with Chan pressed to his side. He needed to talk to Wonwoo or someone about that; autumn would be there before they knew it and the nights would be even colder and -

_“Jeonghan, my angel.”_

He knew that voice, oh he knew that voice so well.

His tutor. His angel of music.

 _(“I am your angel of music,”_ he had said long ago, sounding like a perfect promise to Jeonghan’s young ears, _“and you are mine.”)_

Closing his eyes again, wishing to stay in this dream as long as he could, Jeonghan replied, “Yes, master?”

“It is time.”

Jeonghan sat up with reopened eyes, heart starting to pound at what the voice implied, and peered into the darkness even though he knew nothing was there. Nothing was ever there, no matter how many times he asked his mysterious tutor to show himself. But that didn’t stop or even slow the way his heart raced. “Yes, master,” he whispered again as he swung his legs over the side of his bed.

Behind him, Chan stirred but didn’t wake.

Before he left the room, Jeonghan donned the coat he’d bought a few years ago, taking a moment to burrow in the warmth it provided, and then he was on his way. Years of ballet allowed him to take quiet, graceful steps weaving through the dormitory, avoiding limbs hanging off mattresses and discarded shoes and clothes on the floor. And years of sneaking out made it so he knew at what angles the door would creak. He avoided said angles as he slowly opened it, throwing a look over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t woken anyone up, and then he was gone.

Partially at his angel’s request, partially due to muscle memory, Jeonghan used no light as he made his way through the darkness of the opera house, down to the cellars. He counted the steps in his mind, tracing his fingertips along the walls, noting when painted wood became cold stone. As always, his tutor did not speak during the trek (nor could he be seen in the shadows), yet Jeonghan could still sense him, could _always_ sense him. His angel’s presence was like fire, warm and dangerous. Like Jeonghan would be singed if he came too close. He shivered at this, an involuntary shudder rippling down his spine.

Down he went, down into the depths of the opera house. They were hardly secret or forbidden but, as long as Jeonghan had been here, no one dared ever traverse them. The legends of what they held - a brooding ghost they all called the Phantom - were no doubt enough to keep everyone away. Which meant it was blissfully empty down here every time Jeonghan came with his angel of music. Even the ghost that terrorized rehearsals and stole trinkets and sheet music was never anywhere to be found when it was just Jeonghan and the angel; perhaps the Phantom was scared of him. Frightened away by the light this angel stood for.

But with emptiness came darkness; Jeonghan could not see a thing. It was not unnerving, however, not like it was at first. He knew his angel was here somewhere, watching him, and he closed his eyes.

“What shall I sing tonight?” he asked of the shadows.

And the shadows replied, “The aria from the last several weeks, from _Hannibal.”_

Again with the aria… Jeonghan took a deep breath and opened his eyes, again staring into nothingness. Though the lack of light was beginning to play tricks on him and he swore he saw a figure somehow. Imaginary lights swirled before him, trying to take shape. “Master, if I may - this is all we've been working on ever since Jihoon gave us the sheet music for _Hannibal._ I'm... I'm in the chorus again, remember? Not even an understudy. So why am I focusing so hard on this part? It belongs to Boo Seungkwan," _unsurprisingly,_ “and tonight is the opening so there’s no point in me working on it. Right?”

The longer he spoke - the longer his tutor let him speak - the weaker his voice became until it was all but a whisper, lost in the echoes around them. The angel never liked being second-guessed, never liked Jeonghan arguing with him (if such a simple query could be considered arguing, but in Jeonghan’s experience it often was). Jeonghan took another deep breath as he waited for the wrath that would surely come.

“How many times have I told you,” the voice started slowly, softly - _too_ soft and it sent pangs of fear straight to Jeonghan’s heart, “to never question me, Jeonghan?”

He bowed his head, like a child reprimanded by his mother. Like instinct. “Apologies, Master. I-I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll sing the aria, yes of course.”

With a nod to himself, to give his heart a moment to calm down again - thundering throughout his body with the strength of a church bell - he began. The notes and words were familiar; he memorized them the first time Seungkwan sang them because they’d sounded so beautiful. Then that same night his tutor had come to him, whispering that his voice would sound so much better than Seungkwan’s, that he deserved the part instead. Of course Jeonghan had merely blushed and tried his hand at the aria, voice wavering in the darkness. But now he sang with all his confidence, hitting notes he wasn't certain he could hit a few months ago, sensing his angel's presence, his gaze on him. If he closed his eyes he could pretend he was before an audience, the sort of audience that always came out to see Boo Seungkwan, and heat slipped into his veins, coursing through his body, at the thought. All of those eyes on him, each one of them watching him so intently, Jeonghan knowing that he was making his angel of music proud… He wanted it, more than anything. It was why he came here almost eleven years ago, with his parents' approval - performing was his life's goal. A dream he longed to make into reality.

"You sing so beautifully."

His voice was a whisper in the darkness, yet it was still enough to falter Jeonghan; he choked on a high note and then lost his place. "I - you flatter me, master."

"Do I?"

Oh how Jeonghan wished he could see him. The low, deep timbre of his voice sent shivers through Jeonghan's body and he bit his lip. "You always do, with your praise. I am undeserving of it."

"I disagree."

A blush touched his cheeks, heating up his skin, and he looked down - even though he couldn't see his tutor. "I… thank you," he whispered.

"Continue, Jeonghan. Sing for me."

He did as instructed of him, though there was still a flustered flutter in his heart, letting his voice ring out through the cellars. And he found he actually liked the sound of it. Actually, he was realizing that more often than not, lately. How nice it was, to have confidence in himself; when a few years ago he could barely sing in front of another person. He supposed it was due to his angel's own confidence in him. Because now, Jeonghan liked the way he hit the notes when he sang, liked the soft, breathy quality to his voice, the way the words rolled off his tongue. It all sounded so natural. And when he finished the aria he let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes once more.

Just once, he wanted to perform the way Seungkwan did. He'd have even settled for a supporting role; the kind Jisoo had. But instead he was relegated to the chorus as a mere ballet dancer and occasional singer, and this: crooning arias that may as well be forbidden in the shadows beneath the opera house. 

"I wish I could sing this instead of Seungkwan," he whispered, in a moment of weakness. He could picture the audience before him and their adoring eyes. God, he wanted it. "He's been the lead in _everything_ for years. When will I get my chance?"

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth and he immediately clammed up, as if he'd been scolded. Seungkwan had worked hard to get where he was, and to be lead tenor for as long as he had when he was only a few years older than Jeonghan... well, he deserved the parts bestowed upon him. And he performed this one so beautifully. As he always did.

"You have worked hard, Jeonghan," the angel said, as if reading his mind. And his voice sounded closer than before.

Thoughts raced through Jeonghan's mind faster than he could catch them, but he didn't dare open his eyes. Though, decidedly, not a single one of them was about Boo Seungkwan. Why would they be, when his tutor was close enough to touch? Jeonghan could sense it, as if he were attuned to everything he was. "Angel," he whispered, "if I open my eyes, will you be here?"

"You know the answer to that."

He bit his lip again and tried to swallow down the impetuous thoughts that crossed his mind. Every time Jeonghan asked he was given this answer, and after ten years he still did not know _why._ So he took a deep breath and asked before he could lose his nerve. "Why won't you let me see you?"

"Jeonghan." His deep voice held a warning, one that Jeonghan couldn't miss if he tried. "You also know this. I will reveal myself when I am ready.”

Still, he wanted to argue. Retort back that it'd been a decade since this angel came to him; how could he not be ready to show himself? He trusted Jeonghan enough to appear before him in whatever incorporeal state this was; what more could revealing himself take? However Jeonghan knew from experience that saying this would not go over well, to say the least, so he kept quiet. In his silence, the whisper of fabric and the clicking of boots on stone came to him louder than normal, breaking through his thoughts like thunder, and he was hyperaware of a presence behind him. It was a familiar presence, borne of shadows and all the light of Heaven; Jeonghan's breathing began to quicken and he wished the angel would touch him. Even something fleeting, but enough to prove to Jeonghan that he was _real,_ and not the figment of an imagination still trying to process grief from over ten years ago. Enough to sate the strange desire he had and could not name, but it took up residence deep within him. Like flames had seared his soul.

The thought left as quickly as it appeared but it _had_ appeared, nonetheless. And so it had before; so it would again. Jeonghan just hoped angels couldn't actually read minds, as he’d heard they can.

“What are you thinking about, angel?” His tutor's voice was quiet, close to Jeonghan’s ear. Close enough that Jeonghan shivered. Close enough that Jeonghan could feel warm breath on his skin, warm breath he didn’t think angels were capable of possessing.

He wondered, silently, if he ought to tell the truth, weighed the consequences of such honesty. But if he ever wanted to see his angel, to bring these thoughts to fruition, they could be no lies between them. “You, Master,” he whispered.

“What about me?” Somehow his voice dropped lower, quieter, and Jeonghan _wanted._ He wanted so much; to have the lead role for once, to have his angel show himself. To be praised. But he wasn’t certain what he wanted more.

“Just you.” His own voice was barely higher than a whisper, but he knew his angel could hear him. “How much I enjoy our lessons.”

“I enjoy them too, Jeonghan.”

A shudder ripped through Jeonghan's body when he felt hot, strong hands on his hips, burning through the thick material of his coat. Any thoughts in his head stuttered and ceased, dissolved in the warmth suddenly surrounding him. “Angel,” he whispered, trying to make sense of the sensations pulsing through his body. Surely a heavenly being such as the one standing behind him, holding him tightly, should not be making him feel this way, like he couldn’t breathe, but he’d known for years that this was no ordinary angel. The sadness that had clung to his voice when they met so long ago, in the chapel in the basement of the opera house, seemed out of place, even to Jeonghan's ten year old mind. Of course, he didn't know much about angels or Heaven back then... just that the one that called to him sounded just as alone as Jeonghan had been.

 _"Sometimes heaven is not kind to those who are different,”_ he'd said, nothing more than a disembodied voice in the shadows of the stone chapel. In that moment, Jeonghan knew he was different than the angels he'd read about in church.

And part of Jeonghan liked that about him, a part of himself he did not like indulging.

A part of him only his angel brought out.

“Jeonghan?”

A third voice. It was further away, higher-pitched, and just as familiar. Chan.

The angel’s grip tightened on his hips, and it felt wrong. Angry. Like he meant to hide Jeonghan away, keep him for himself. Behavior that, Jeonghan knew, was not befitting of an angel. But so much of him was the antithesis of angelic that Jeonghan was not surprised. Only afraid. More than once he'd been on the receiving end of such heavenly fury, and he silently begged Chan not to come any closer.

“Did you tell him, Jeonghan?”

The roughness of his voice, where he'd been so tempting and quiet before, shocked Jeonghan into silence, and he struggled for words, for placation. “N-no, angel. No, I wouldn’t…. you told me not to tell anyone, and I - _please_ don’t be upset with me. Please. Perhaps I-I accidentally woke him up and he came looking for me. Please, you know he worries…” The excuses came tumbling from his mouth, breathless pleas that Jeonghan tried to cling to, in hopes of making them sound sincere. It wasn’t often that his angel was angry with him but still, Jeonghan hated it. Hated knowing that he had disappointed him; that he had failed him.

“Jeonghan?” Chan called again, closer now. The way his footsteps echoed off the stone staircase was louder, as well.

His angel’s hands fell from his body, fiery warmth suddenly replaced with empty coldness, and Jeonghan bit his lip. He was losing him. “Please don’t be upset with me,” he said again. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

 _“Yes,”_ he said, as emphatically as he could. “Don’t go, please. Angel please, I…”

When he trailed off there was no response, and Jeonghan opened his eyes. From the door to the cellar he could see a faint light, perhaps a candle, flickering in the darkness but other than that there was nothing. He couldn’t even sense _him_ anymore, and fear hardened his stomach into a knot. He didn’t want to let the night go like this, didn’t want his angel to leave with anger in his heart.

Anger at Jeonghan.

“Jeonghan?”

Chan came into view, lit by the candle he held, ends of his coat dragging on the stone floor. His dark hair was mussed and tangled, brought on by his years-old habit of tossing and turning in bed, even if he swore that once he turned eighteen he stopped, and he looked at Jeonghan with hooded, sleepy eyes.

“What are you doing down here again, Han?” he asked quietly, as if afraid of disturbing the silent darkness. With his free hand he rubbed at one of his eyes and guilt joined that knot of fear in Jeonghan’s stomach, guilt at waking up his sweet friend. Guilt at keeping secrets from him.

“I was - singing,” he responded, which technically wasn’t a lie. With a sigh he plucked the candle from Chan’s hands, set it on the floor beside them, and drew the younger boy into a tight hug. He hoped that the warmth and familiarity of Chan's hug might distract him from the chaos storming inside him. “Did I wake you when I left?”

He nodded against the crook of Jeonghan’s neck, arms wrapping around him. Almost immediately his body seemed to sag, and Jeonghan figured he hadn't been awake for very long. The guilt increased tenfold. “Come back to the dorms, Han. It’s almost morning and the new owners will be here today.”

At the mention of the new owners, Jeonghan's heart sank. He’d forgotten, though he's not certain if that was because his angel always preoccupied so much of his time or because he was... less than excited to meet them. He had nothing against them, of course, but according to the gossip that often ran through the dormitories, neither of them had very much experience with theater.

And the Phantom that haunted them didn't like newcomers.

Sighing softly Jeonghan carded his fingers through Chan’s hair and pulled back with a soft smile. “Then let’s head back together.”

"Yeah," Chan agreed with a strange look on his face as he glanced at the shadows around them, "before we run into the Phantom."

A viable worry, Jeonghan decided, now that his angel was gone and couldn't protect him anymore.

They walked silently hand in hand for a while, Chan’s candle working hard at lighting up those dark corners of the opera house. Dark corners where phantoms and angels hid and Jeonghan hoped _he_ wasn’t too mad. God, he knew it would plague his thoughts all day, from rehearsals to meeting the new owners. Until he could see his angel again, hopefully tonight. Being apart from him always made Jeonghan nervous, especially when they parted like they had today.

The last thing Jeonghan ever wanted to do was make him mad or disappoint him. But... even something as small as Chan coming to search for Jeonghan upset his delicate, celestial emotions. It wasn't the first time something similar had happened, either.

But Jeonghan couldn't make sense of it, so he just pushed it from his mind.

As he and Chan reached the dormitory, Chan stopped them. He looked at Jeonghan with those sleepy eyes again and smiled.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Wonwoo or Minghao that you snuck out again,” he whispered, like their anger was what had Jeonghan worried.

He returned his friend’s smile nonetheless and ruffled his tangled hair. “Let’s sleep a bit longer, hmm?”

A few moments later in the darkness of the dorm, Chan snuggling against his side, Jeonghan couldn’t find sleep. His thoughts were plagued too much that he couldn't grasp any of it; it all slipped through his fingers like dust. So he settled for staring up at the ceiling and listening to the snores around him.

The spring air nipped at Soonyoung’s face as he stepped from the carriage, the only part of him that was cold because the _rest_ of him was bundled up in his warmest clothing. Somehow March in Paris was much colder than March along the southern shores of France, a fact Soonyoung had not been expecting when he and Seokmin moved to the city a mere week ago. And honestly if he had known… well perhaps he wouldn’t have been as zealous in purchasing this opera house as he had been. A cold nose made for a sour mood, Soonyoung had often found, and a sour mood would most likely make for sour opera singers.

Beside him, Seokmin took a deep breath, plastering that bright smile of his on his face. Usually, Soonyoung liked seeing it but now its mere presence felt like a slap on his (cold) face. “Refreshing, isn’t it?”

“I miss Marseille,” Soonyoung mumbled, wishing he found his friend’s effervescence, a staple of Seokmin's personality, to be as comforting as it often was. But not that day; that cold spring day Seokmin’s joyful mood felt out of place. Like a well-timed warning Soonyoung never heeded. Following his friend’s gaze, Soonyoung looked at the opera house. It stood tall and proud in the morning light, a marvelous beauty, really; the sun glinted off the bronze and gold statues that adorned the exterior and posed monumentally above the two men.

No wonder it had cost them as many francs as it had; the building itself was worth a fortune, even if it was a number Soonyoung didn’t like remembering.

With a sigh he nudged Seokmin with his elbow. “Well? Shall we meet our company?”

“Yes!” The younger man set a quick pace as he walked, footsteps seeming to echo off the marble stairs in his earnest.

Lagging behind some, Soonyoung followed. The whole thing struck him as rather odd, the more he thought about it. The previous owner, a man with some frightfully long name that Soonyoung could never remember, had sold the theater to them as cheaply as he could ('cheaply' being relative, of course) and said that he would not even be present to show them around, leaving that privilege to the main stagehand, as he’d detailed in his last letter. It seemed like the man had been _running_ , but from what Soonyoung had no idea. But of course, that wasn’t entirely true. Of course Soonyoung had heard _rumors_ – this was the most famous opera house in the country, and even down in Marseille he’d heard of the supposed phantom that sometimes wreaked havoc here. Unexplainable deaths, props going missing or breaking, shadows and voices in the dark… Not that Soonyoung believed in any of it (hence why he’d jumped at the chance to purchase such a supposedly “haunted” theater for half the price) but he imagined such rumors and accidents could prompt one to simply up and leave if he’d had enough.

They entered the opera house and Soonyoung couldn’t help the soft gasp that left his lips; it was enough to take his breath away.

The marble staircase in the center of the room was indeed as grand as the previous owner had detailed in their correspondence. It seemed more massive than anything else Soonyoung had ever seen, and he could just imagine the amounts of money that had passed over those stone steps; the men in their best suits and the women on their arms, dressed in their lovely dresses, dripping jewelry. Suddenly the promise of tonight’s sold out show seemed a lot more tangible.

“It’s beautiful,” Seokmin breathed.

“Isn’t it?”

A new voice, a deeper one, replied and Soonyoung turned to see a tall, thin man in a black coat make his way over to them. The loose threads on his sleeves and the way he carried himself screamed poor but he smiled, nonetheless. It didn’t reach his eyes, and seemed to haunt his angular face. “Allow me to introduce myself, monsieurs,” he said, extending a hand. “My name is Jeon Wonwoo, chief stagehand. I believe you were told to expect me?”

“Ah yes!” Seokmin chirped and he took the man’s hand, shaking it. “Good morning, Monsieur Jeon. I’m Lee Seokmin and this is my friend - er, co-owner - Kwon Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung took the man’s hand when Seokmin relinquished it. His grip was strong and rough, and perhaps it was the entire experience up to this point - the vaguely terrified feel of the previous owner’s letters, the cold, imposing statues outside the theater, the obvious opulence with which everything had been built, rumors of mischievous phantoms, and the nagging dread at the back of his mind - but something was off about this man. Something Soonyoung couldn’t quite place his finger on, and that unnerved him even more. “A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Jeon.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he assured with that flat smile again.

Soonyoung tried to ignore it.

“Shall we begin the tour?” Wonwoo asked and Seokmin grinned even wider, nodding.

"Before we do," Soonyoung said, glancing around. They were the only people in the foyer and their voices echoed through it, bouncing back and forth between the walls as if they were having conversations of their own. "Has the Vicomte arrived yet? Choi Seungcheol?"

Wonwoo arched an eyebrow. "Vicomte? No. I wasn't aware we were expecting such a visitor."

"Oh." Soonyoung sighed slightly; so far the day was one of minor, yet mounting setbacks: the cold, the strange energy of this place and the people in it, and now this. "I reached out to him at the previous owner's suggestion; he's the opera house's new patron, and he said he'd meet us here today..."

"I'm sure he'll be here," Seokmin said gently, meant to comfort him, he knew.

The topic was tabled, for now, and they walked. Wonwoo took them first to the auditorium, where the company was already hard at work, despite it being maybe eight in the morning. Soonyoung could barely hear Wonwoo's words over the music conducted by a short man standing at the edge of the stage - and then his attention was pulled further elsewhere as he looked up and around. The same sort of colors that made up the grand foyer - red and gold - adorned the inner theater, and the same sort of striking statues did too. The ones that made Soonyoung feel like he was being watched.

A sharp tenor cut through his reverie, delivering what had to be the most beautiful note he’d ever heard.

He looked to the stage and saw a portion of the company gathered around a costumed, bejeweled man who looked like he might pass out if he continued singing like that. But it seemed to suit him; mouth open wide, he broke through Wonwoo's words with a strong voice, as if he were made for the stage that held him. Most of the other faces Soonyoung saw mirrored what he imagined his own looked like: thinly veiled surprise. But the man continued on, even when a few of the dancers got in his way. He shot them murderous looks and they shrank away from him.

“Interesting man,” Soonyoung commented, despite himself.

Wonwoo snorted from beside him; it was as fond as it was exhausted. “That would be Boo Seungkwan, our best tenor - and he knows it. He’s a bit of a handful but he draws in crowds so we keep him around.”

“His voice is beautiful,” Seokmin said, apparently awed by the whole spectacle of the thing. Of _everything._ “I could listen to him all day.”

Soonyoung raised an eyebrow at this, deciding that once again he and Seokmin were at odds about this whole opera thing, but he kept his mouth shut.

“You and the rest of Paris, it seems,” Wonwoo said. “But we have a plethora of singers. The young man in costume over there - “ he motioned to a slender man standing just left of the center of the stage, watching Seungkwan with amused eyes - “is Hong Jisoo, and he generally plays opposite Seungkwan. Gives him a run for his money if you ask me.”

“He’s handsome,” Seokmin said quietly, as if he did not want to be heard, and Soonyoung merely snorted to himself because _of course._

Turning back to Wonwoo - and ignoring his best friend's adoring eyes - Soonyoung asked, “They’re rehearsing _Hannibal_ , right? At least, that's what we were told...”

Wonwoo nodded. “Yes, today is the dress rehearsal, as tonight we’ve a sold-out show for the premiere. Right?”

“Right.” Soonyoung’s eyes were drawn to the dancers as they moved gracefully, lithe young men and women with more control over the stage than any Boo Seungkwan, but Soonyoung has always thought that way about dancers, the rare times he attended the opera in Marseille. Something about them always made him think he could do it, too. “There’s obviously a lot of talent here.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Wonwoo said with an incline of his head. “We work hard here.” And then fighting a smile he points to a young dark-haired man twirling across the stage with the rest of the dancers, movements tight and measured, face drawn in concentration. “That’s my younger brother, Lee Chan. He’s the best dancer we have, if I do say so myself.”

“Lee?” Soonyoung asked, watching the boy leap with the other dancers, perfectly in sync with the music. “Different last names?”

“Different mothers,” Wonwoo responded with a slight shrug, and that was that.

Seokmin grinned once more (like it ever left his face), eyes following every motion. “He’s incredible. They all are.” Turning to Soonyoung, he elbowed him in the ribs. “I can’t wait to watch tonight’s performance!”

The three of them made their way towards the stage, and Seungkwan’s singing grew even louder. His strong, stable voice carried through the theater as he hit notes Soonyoung didn’t think existed. But he mixed well with the chorus, who marched behind him in costume as well with obviously intricately choreographed movements. Around them the company worked; stagehands pushing props, dancers gliding across the stage. No wonder this was the most popular opera house in France; the way everyone moved, worked together in perfect synchronization was astounding, and Soonyoung found himself looking forward to that night’s performance as well. For the first time since they’d purchased the damned theater he was excited.

Wonwoo came to a stop beside another tallish, thin man who stood off to the side of the stage. He wore his hair long and black, and some of it fell into his young, stoic face. Dark eyes watched the dancers with intense concentration, but he sighed as he must have felt Wonwoo’s presence.

“Jeonghan’s off today,” the other man murmured, and Soonyoung followed his gaze. As if on cue, a young, blond man stumbled enough that it probably wouldn’t have been noticed if one wasn’t looking, but it _was_ enough to mess up the dancers in front and behind him. “Juyeon said he woke up to Jeonghan leaving the dormitory before dawn, that Chan had left after him. They returned relatively quickly but - “

Wonwoo sighed too. “Go easy on him, Minghao.”

The other man turned to him with a frown etched into his handsome features. “Why? Just because - “ And then his dark eyes fell on Soonyoung and Seokmin. His words seemed to die in his throat, but Soonyoung wished he'd kept speaking. Such pointed silence only added to the anxiety slowly, slowly building inside him. Was something wrong with one of the dancers? But Soonyoung never received the answer to his unasked question; any intensity in Minghao's voice melted away with the words he did not speak. “Ah, these must be our new owners. Welcome, monsieurs. I am Xu Minghao, ballet master.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you!” Seokmin said around another bright smile. “You must be the reason why this ballet is famed all throughout France!”

Humility brought Minghao’s shoulders down, a pinkish flush to his young, handsome face. “Thank you, monsieur. I try my best.”

Before more introductions could commence Wonwoo stepped towards the center of the stage, to where Seungkwan was singing something in Italian. Clapping his hands a few times to get attention (and bowing his head in an apology to Seungkwan, an apology not taken, if the scowl on Seungkwan's face was anything to go on) he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have introductions to make.” He motioned to Soonyoung and Seokmin with that flat smile again. “These are our new owners, Lee Seokmin and Kwon Soonyoung. They made their fortune down in Marseille in the junk business - “

“ _Scrap metal_ ,” Soonyoung bit out. He definitely was not a fan of this Wonwoo thus far.

Wonwoo raised a brow but inclined his head in apology again. “Yes of course, monsieur. Ah, anyway. Treat them all with the same respect you did our former owner.”

“Can we get back to rehearsal?” came a voice from behind them.

Soonyoung turned and frowned at the scowling conductor. He was at least half a foot shorter than Soonyoung, but his voice was strong. It commanded respect, as all eyes turned to him, and Soonyoung fought back a smile at the sight of this angry little man. “You are?”

“Lee Jihoon, _monsieur_ ,” he said a bit harsher than he should, Soonyoung supposed, “the one responsible for how your company sounds, as well as the lyrics they sing. So if you don’t mind - “

A faraway door slammed open, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps and then heavy breathing - and a man appeared at one of the entrances to the theater. He ran fingers through curly raven hair hanging in his eyes as he rushed toward the stage, and through the dark, fancy clothes and the drawings Soonyoung had seen of him, he was able to quickly place the young man.

“Apologies, monsieurs!” Vicomte Choi Seungcheol huffed out as he came to stand with everyone else. Sweat gathered at his temples and he gave a bright smile that showed off his teeth and gums, and Soonyoung could hear the collective swooning that went up through the company. But Soonyoung wasn't as impressed; charming young men with a lot of money tended to do more harm than good. Soonyoung should know; he used to be one of those. But, he had to admit, something about Choi Seungcheol was comforting. Looking at him made Soonyoung want to forgive him of his crimes, and he did, silently.

"Ah, Vicomte," Seokmin said, smiling still, always, and he clapped the man on his shoulder. "Thank you for joining us!"

Seungcheol nodded once and then turned his attention to the company, giving another dazzling grin, as well as a slight bow. "Hello, everyone.”

Jihoon groaned, muttering something under his breath, a sentiment Soonyoung found himself agreeing with. Already this was all proving to be a lot more stressful than anything he and Seokmin encountered down in Marseille.

“More introductions are to be made, I see,” Wonwoo said with a slight sigh. He motioned to Seungcheol and was about to open his mouth again when he was interrupted by whispers somewhere in the chorus line.

From this far away Soonyoung couldn’t make out the words but he recognized two of the dancers singled out to him from earlier: Chan and Jeonghan. The blond man said something to his friend in a low voice and then stopped halfway through once he realized all eyes were on them, handsome face heating up red. He couldn’t meet anyone’s gazes, especially not Wonwoo’s. 

“Mister Yoon, Mister Lee,” Wonwoo said in a taut voice, and Soonyoung wondered if he often spoke to his brother like that. “Is there something you’d like to share with everyone?”

Beside him the Vicomte waited patiently, albeit with a strange look on his face. He stared at Jeonghan as if he knew him and was trying to place him; thick brows furrowed atop wide, curious eyes.

The dark-haired boy, Chan, shook his head with a bright grin. “Nope! Apologies, Vicomte, Wonnie - er, I mean…”

Soft laughter broke out amongst the company and Wonwoo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Based on the way Chan responded to his brother, Soonyoung decided that the younger boy didn’t really care how Wonwoo spoke to him. He also decided, with a note of tired amusement, that running this opera house was no doubt going to be an entertaining endeavor.

“Anyway,” Wonwoo continued after the chuckles had died down, “as I was saying, this is Vicomte Choi Seungcheol, our new patron. You will also treat him with the same respect you would give monsieurs Lee and Kwon - “ he threw a pointed look at a grinning Chan - “or I’ll be hearing about it. Understood?”

There came a loud “yes monsieur!” and Soonyoung looked over to find Boo Seungkwan smoothing out his costume, a bright smile on his face. The company snickered quietly, and Wonwoo just sighed.

Turning to Soonyoung and Seokmin, the Vicomte put on that charming smile again. “I’m afraid I must leave, monsieurs, but I’ll be here tonight to witness what I’m certain will be a fantastic opening.” After another glance at the group of dancers muttering quietly to themselves, Choi Seungcheol was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. And everyone watched him go. Especially Jeonghan, Soonyoung noted with curiosity.

“Now that that’s done, can we get back to rehearsals please?” Jihoon snapped. “There’s less than twelve hours till the opening and we still need to perfect Seungkwan’s aria.”

The tenor rolled his eyes. “What’s there to perfect?”

“Just humor me before I lose my mind, Boo,” Jihoon said, but there was the slightest of smiles on his face.

Rehearsal of the aria commenced, with Seungkwan’s loud, rich tenor once again filling the theater. The notes seemed to come smoothly to him, even if several members of the company looked less than thrilled with his singing. Soonyoung had to admit that Seungkwan was indeed _loud_ and a bit harsh on the ears, but truly his voice was beautiful. No wonder he was the opera’s most prized tenor.

Seungkwan sang with his chest, with his face, emotions spilling out as his voice climbed higher and higher. Eyes closing, he seemed lost in his own performance - and then a loud clang rang out.

Like a warning that was not heeded.

A backdrop fell. Right on top of Seungkwan.

Chaos ensued; dancers and stagehands scattering to the tune of Seungkwan's shouts, pushing and shoving to get away from whatever it was that had them so afraid. And through the chaos Soonyoung could make out whispers. Whispers he didn’t like. Whispers that left a knot in his stomach, an acidic taste in his mouth. He met Seokmin’s wide eyes as the loudest of these whispers touched their ears.

_“He’s here, the phantom of the opera!”_

“That’s enough!” Wonwoo cut in as he moved with Minghao and some of the stagehands to free Seungkwan from the fallen prop. He called up to the rafters, demanding answers, and a voice responded that only served to worsen the anxiety burrowing in Soonyoung’s body.

“It wasn’t my fault sir, I-I wasn’t at my post! Please, monsieur, there’s no one there. Or if there is, well then… it must be a ghost.”

The whispers grew louder.

Soonyoung tuned them out, choosing to focus instead on Seungkwan, who stood now, dusting off his costume. Members of the company surrounded him, including a stagehand who looked particularly frightened, but Seungkwan paid them no mind. He was fuming, swearing, ignoring those around him as they asked if he was okay, those who tried to check him over for injuries. And nothing Wonwoo said seemed to placate him. So Seokmin tried, bless his heart.

“Monsieur, these things happen,” he said quietly, seeking Seungkwan out with a gentle gaze. “Technical difficulties and all that.”

“‘These things happen’?” Seungkwan repeated, an air of incredulity to his tone. “These things - “ He whirled on Wonwoo again, jabbing a righteous finger in his face that Wonwoo simply stared at, as if he'd seen it before. “ _These things_ have been happening for _years_ and no one has ever done anything to stop them! Not you, not any of the managers, and it’s always happening to _me_!”

“Seungkwan please,” Wonwoo tried, but he was cut off.

“No!" He folded his arms across his chest and the jewelry from his costume jingled rather comically; but no one seemed able to smile. "I won’t do it! Until you stop _‘these things’_ from happening, I won’t be singing!” With a look at Soonyoung and Seokmin, a look that shoved Soonyoung’s heart down to the soles of his feet, Seungkwan cried, “Enjoy your opening night without your lead, managers!”

And with that he stormed offstage.

Soonyoung wanted to collapse. And it was maybe eight-thirty in the morning.

The company dissolved into turbulent chatter, all of it sounding like gibberish over the rushing in Soonyoung’s ears and he turned to Wonwoo. The anxiety grasping at him was turning into irritation now, with a tinge of desperation; it told him that there was no chance of Seungkwan returning to the stage in the next twelve hours. “Well monsieur?" he demanded. "What are we to do? We’ll have to cancel, refund a full house, as it seems we have lost our star!”

A warm hand touched his arm, no doubt Seokmin’s. “Soonyoung…”

“Monsieur Jeon!”

Soonyoung looked over to where one of the stagehands waved something in his hands. An envelope? Wonwoo let out a sigh and made his way over to the stagehand to pluck the object from his fingers. As he walked back to the front of the stage he opened the envelope and Soonyoung watched his face closely. He didn’t like the look of that envelope, didn’t like the strange energy that permeated this opera house. Ghost or not, something was off. Wrong.

As he read the envelope, Wonwoo sighed once more. “It’s a message, monsieurs,” he said as he looked up at Soonyoung and Seokmin, “from the Opera Ghost.”

“G-ghost?” Seokmin asked quietly, brown eyes widening. “I - is he real?”

Wonwoo fixed him with a look, still holding the envelope, eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of spirits, Monsieur Lee.”

Under his scrutiny Seokmin blushed and Soonyoung knew he would lie; the younger man was as terrified of ghosts as any child. So he kept his chuckle to himself when Seokmin waved the question away with his hand. “Of course not. I’m just curious.”

“He’s as real as any of us,” Wonwoo said and he looked back down at the letter. “He welcomes you to his opera house - “

The incredulity of such a statement, paired with the confirmation that the so-called phantom of the opera did indeed exist, rendered Soonyoung momentarily speechless and all he could stutter out was, “Wh - _his_ opera house? I don’t see him paying us the several hundred thousand francs he’d owe us if that were the case.”

Wonwoo raised another eyebrow, as if mocking him, before continuing, “He commands you to leave Box Five empty for his own personal use and reminds you that his... salary is due.”

It was Seokmin’s turn to stammer out a response, something along the lines of, “What sort of ghost demands a salary?”

God, Soonyoung’s morning was definitely _not_ going the way he’d wanted. From the bone-chilling cold to Boo Seungkwan quitting hours before a sold-out opening to that business with a _ghost?_ Just what in the world did he get himself and Seokmin into?

"The kind that likes to think his compositions are better than mine," Jihoon sneered, in response to Seokmin.

A ghost writing operas.

"Can you blame him for wanting compensation?" Soonyoung asked, trying to inject a little light-heartedness into the situation - or perhaps he was so utterly _confused_ by what he was hearing that his brain simply... resorted to something familiar. Like humor.

Jihoon scowled at him, confirming that yes indeed he could blame this phantom for wanting money.

“I’m certain you could afford it,” Wonwoo said to Seokmin, “with the Vicomte as your new patron?”

“If we didn’t have to refund a sold-out house, that is!” Soonyoung shot back, disliking the tone Wonwoo used. Now, he hadn't been in the opera business very long - but he was certain stagehands weren't supposed to mouth off to managers like this. The desire to return to Marseille flared up once more, accompanying the headache starting just above his brow.

“Yoon Jeonghan could sing Seungkwan’s part,” Wonwoo responded casually, like it was a simple fact of life everyone should know. Like Yoon Jeonghan was more than a chorus boy, a dancer. Like Yoon Jeonghan had the same star power as Boo Seungkwan.

Yoon Jeonghan looked up with wide eyes full of stars and wonder, ears turning pink again. All gazes were on him now, all hopes hinging on him and damn it, Soonyoung hoped the kid could at least carry a tune. “I - wh - um, I-I could try?”

Seokmin offered him a warm smile.

Soonyoung lifted a hand to rub at the throbbing behind his temple. “This doesn’t inspire confidence, Monsieur Jeon.”

“Let him sing for you,” Wonwoo said. “He’s been trained well.”

“Oh?” Seokmin asked. “Would we know your tutor? What’s his name?”

The young man flushed a darker pink, not a good sign. “I don’t… I must admit, I don’t even know his name, monsieur.”

Soonyoung frowned. What kind of tutor...? Heaving a sigh, he let go of the thought; it would only make his headache worse.

Yoon Jeonghan took a few steps forward after being prodded by Chan and his other dancers, until he reached center stage. He glanced between Soonyoung, Seokmin, Minghao, Jihoon, and finally Wonwoo. The latter gave him a soft smile - this one actually touched his eyes.

“Deep breath, Han,” he said quietly.

Jeonghan nodded, closed his eyes, and drew in a slow breath.

When he exhaled on the first word, the first note, the entire company froze, Soonyoung and Seokmin included. It was like they were suddenly in an angel’s presence. He filled the theater with his soft, warm voice, hitting notes just as easily as Seungkwan but with less of the power. He was far more demure – especially when he caught the gazes of his friends, blushing as he tucked long blond hair behind his ear – and sang with a grace that fit the sound of the song almost perfectly.

It was unfair to compare the two men, but something about this Yoon Jeonghan captured everyone’s attention. Perhaps it was his youth and humility, or his beauty, or the gentle way he sang. Maybe everything.

Suddenly hope returned to Soonyoung. Maybe they could pull this off – if Yoon Jeonghan knew the rest of Seungkwan’s part.

When Jeonghan finished the song, there were no sounds in the theater, except for his soft breaths. He opened his eyes, face flushing when he met Wonwoo’s warm, fond gaze - and then he was attacked by a side hug.

“Han!” Chan cried as he wrapped his arms around the taller boy, “that was so amazing! You’re so amazing!”

The rest of the company descended into babbling praises as well, much to Jeonghan’s chagrin, as he continued blushing and trying to brush off their compliments. Even Seokmin got involved, moving to embrace the boy he just met with his trademark bubbly grin. Jeonghan accepted the hug nevertheless, smiling in a way that crinkles his eyes and showed off his teeth.

It even made Wonwoo smile.

“There’s your new star,” he said quietly, meeting Soonyoung’s eyes. “He’s no Boo Seungkwan but he’s obviously talented.”

“Indeed,” Soonyoung responded. “Who is his tutor? You said he was trained well and that much is clear but...”

He didn’t like the smirk that touched Wonwoo’s lips, but Soonyoung quickly realized that there was a lot about Wonwoo that he didn’t like, that rubbed him the wrong way. “It’s a secret,” he said. “His teacher is… shy.”

Soonyoung huffed at that, deciding that he should've spent more time corresponding with the previous owner. Apparently the few letters they'd sent back and forth were not enough. “I see. And you know him?”

“I do. He’ll be glad to know that Jeonghan is your new lead. Thank you, monsieur.” With that, Wonwoo stepped forward to join the crowd as well.

And perhaps it was his imagination - no it was _definitely_ his imagination - but Soonyoung swore he felt _someone_ behind him. But when he turned no one was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! <3
> 
> one last note that i wanted to put here: if there's anyone who has issues with or doesn't like the portrayal of seungkwan in this fic thus far, i absolutely understand. but please remember that he will be more developed than his musical/movie counterpart as the fic goes on, and not just a diva stereotype. trust me, it hurts putting our sweet boo in this role in the beginning but he will definitely develop (and it's so fun)!
> 
> thank you for reading! <3


	3. two: the devil's hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you all for the love this has received! right now this is one of like 3 things keeping me sane lmao so i'm glad so many of you are enjoying it too! <3

**two: the devil’s hand**

When Seungcheol arrived that night, the opera house was already bustling with attendees, dressed in their best. They poured out of carriages, the finest wealth Paris had to offer, and he squeezed between bodies to make his way to the theater. He was here alone, as his brother, sister, and parents didn’t care much for the arts, but that suited him just fine; he had a box all to himself, with a perfect view of the stage, so he could just sit back and enjoy the show. Their loss, really; he never understood why they refused to support the arts. Perhaps Seungcheol was biased but... he'd always loved the opera. Loved listening to the beautiful orchestral pieces written, the exquisite notes echoing throughout the theater. He would admit, though, that his opinion of the opera was enhanced with memories. Sitting next to a little blond boy in this very same box more than ten years ago, after dragging their families here. Watching his companion's sweet face rather than the performers, because witnessing the things Yoon Jeonghan loved most in the world was always Seungcheol's favorite pastime.

He sighed now, glancing down at the curtained stage with a heaviness in his heart. The boy from earlier, the one who interrupted Wonwoo's speech, had looked _so much_ like Jeonghan, enough that it brought thoughts of him to the front of Seungcheol's mind. Though, he never really stopped thinking about Jeonghan. Ever. He was always somewhere in Seungcheol's head, his heart, his soul. Floating around, just out of reach. Much like real life.

Or so Seungcheol wished.

He hadn't seen Jeonghan in over a decade, not since he went... wherever it was he was taken to. Some said that a wealthy family on the southern coast adopted him. Others said he had some long-lost cousins in New York City, across the ocean. But none of it mattered, since his parents' deaths severed the only materialistic connection they had.

Jeonghan was the love of his life, at ten years old - but it hadn't been enough to keep him where Seungcheol wouldn't lose him.

He would have loved being here, Seungcheol knew. Sitting beside him in the box their family shared years ago, watching the opera playing out before their eyes. Losing himself in music, in the story, in the thought of performing.

Seungcheol would've been lying if he said his motives for funding the opera were well-intentioned; he was not a spiritual man but he liked to think that pouring money into something Jeonghan loved could result in him being happy wherever he was. At the very least, it soothed Seungcheol's soul some.

He sighed once more and decided to push Jeonghan from his mind as best as he could; it wouldn't do him any good, and tonight was supposed to be happy. But as excited as he was for this performance, for this opening night, he couldn’t help the worry that tugged at him. He was spending his family’s money on this - his first independent venture, after months of his older siblings insisting he wasn't ready - God, and if anything went wrong…

Seungcheol shifted in his seat. Nothing was going to go wrong.

As he waited for the performance to start, he let his eyes wander. The auditorium was slowly filling up with people and he could hear their chatter from high above. But something else caught his eye; the man in the box across from him. Box five, if he remembered correctly from the few letters the old owner exchanged with him, after Kwon Soonyoung had reached out to him. The previous owner had said something to him about the box generally being empty, save for one man who tended to keep it for himself. Naturally, Seungcheol was curious. What kind of power or money would that man have to be able to continuously rent out a single box for himself?

He looked at the man, at the intricately designed mask on his face. It covered only one side, leaving Seungcheol to wonder if he was so far removed from people his own age that he had no idea what passed for fashion anymore. Except that, as far as he could tell, no one else had a mask like that. And the man seemed young too, even from a distance. Perhaps a little older than Seungcheol himself. His suit was nice enough, dark hair slicked back off his forehead, and that _mask._ He had to be rich, but Seungcheol didn’t recognize him. Perhaps he was new money, didn't quite know what to do with it -

The man turned and their eyes met. From across the theater Seungcheol couldn't tell much about the man's expression, just that it hardened the moment they looked at each other. Something in his dark eyes made Seungcheol shiver, even from far away, and he wondered why this stranger was so… angry. Why he was glaring at random people from across the theater. Seungcheol offered him a kind smile nonetheless before looking back at the stage, trying to get rid of the lingering dread. Why he was so shaken up over a simple wordless encounter, he wasn’t certain. He just knew that he didn’t like the way the stranger looked at him.

After a few more minutes it was time for the performance to begin. The new managers appeared on stage, before the curtains, and introduced themselves. And they were quite comedic about it, easing several laughs from the audience and making it seem effortless. Seungcheol liked that; honestly, he could see a long future with Kwon Soonyoung and Lee Seokmin as owners. After their own introductions, which felt more like some amusing skit, they motioned to Seungcheol up in his own box and introduced him as well, as the opera’s new patron. He waved down to the audience, a comfortable smile settling on his lips. Soonyoung said something about Seungcheol needing new ways to spend his parents’ money and he laughed.

At least, he did until he locked eyes with that angry man in box five again. And then the laughter died in his throat.

The stranger scowled and did not look away, and Seungcheol decided that he needed to talk to Soonyoung and Seokmin about this. At least to ask who this man was and why he felt the need to glare at him like this.

“...unfortunately our star, the incomparable Boo Seungkwan, fell ill this morning,” Soonyoung was saying onstage with a gentle smile, “so his role will be filled by a newcomer by the name of Yoon Jeonghan.”

 _Yoon Jeonghan_ , Seungcheol thought over the loud, albeit hesitant, applause. _So that_ was _him earlier._

Walking - rather, running - into the theater that morning Seungcheol had been inexplicably drawn to the blonde chorus boy keeping to the edges of the company’s crowd. Something about him had tugged at Cheol’s heart. The way his golden hair fell along his collarbones was heartbreakingly familiar; the way his bow-shaped lips curled around an embarrassed smile, the way his ears tinged red, and every one of his delicate features told Seungcheol that somehow, someway, they knew each other. He’d been too busy thinking to make the connection when Wonwoo had referred to him as “Mister Yoon” but now, watching him take his place onstage, Soonyoung and Seokmin long since gone, Seungcheol was certain that was indeed his childhood best friend.

The last time he remembered seeing Yoon Jeonghan had to have been at least a decade before, singing a somber hymn at his own father’s funeral. Ten years old and he’d had the voice of an angel back then. Pride surged through Seungcheol’s body now, a decade on, watching his best - only - childhood friend singing like this in front of so many people. He remembered helping Jeonghan put on shows for their parents years ago, in Seungcheol’s family’s home, Jeonghan dissolving into a fit of giggles every time Seungcheol would join him in dancing, caterwauling off-key.

_He probably wouldn’t laugh if I did that now, hmm?_

Not that Seungcheol would dare ruin his debut in such a way. No, that would mean leaving his box and he was simply too entranced by Jeonghan to even consider that. Everything about him was beautiful, ethereal, and he commanded attention differently than, say, Boo Seungkwan but still he captured the audience’s focus. The stage was his, like he’d always wanted, and Seungcheol grinned to himself. Twenty years old, and Jeonghan still had the voice of an angel.

_And the beauty._

Seungcheol let his eyes wander a bit, taking in Jeonghan’s still-long blonde hair and the way it curled around his handsome face. When they were younger and his locks reached past his shoulder blades Jeonghan had begged Seungcheol whenever he saw him to _“please braid my hair Cheollie!”_ Cheol had experience from his older sister and Jeonghan would sit patiently, sometimes chastising Seungcheol when he pulled too hard. And afterwards Seungcheol would be rewarded with a kiss on the cheek and the brightest smile. God, Jeonghan had definitely grown into a beautiful young man and Seungcheol’s heart squeezed as he watched him perform.

Ten years. _Ten years._ Would Jeonghan even remember him?

He hoped so.

With a sigh he glanced out at the audience - and something caught his eye. The angry stranger from before, the one in box five, was watching Jeonghan with rapt attention. His lips moved in time with Jeonghan’s and it didn’t take much for Seungcheol to realize that he was singing along. Hmm. Apparently the man quite loved opera. Except that, according to Wonwoo a few days prior, this production was original to the opera house and penned solely by Lee Jihoon, who apparently doubled up as genius composer in addition to grumpy conductor.

_Who is that man?_

And why was he watching Jeonghan so closely?

And why did that bother Seungcheol?

Jeonghan had never felt so… so _alive_ before. And never had he thought he’d be here, sitting in the main dressing room amidst a sea of the most beautiful, delicate flowers he had ever seen, all of them for _him._ Everything, all of this was for _him._ God above, it was honestly electrifying. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the audience applauding him, cheering for him, eyes full of awe and adoration. He’d only ever seen such looks, such love reserved for stars like Boo Seungkwan and the others before him; never had he thought _he_ would be the one to receive it.

Twirling a single rose between his fingers, Jeonghan opened his eyes again, and the beginning note to the aria left his lips softly, as if on instinct. He had been singing it for weeks on end and now - now it was his. So he filled the dressing room’s silence with its haunting notes.

Keeping himself occupied.

God, what a night. He couldn’t wait for later, doubtless when his tutor would come to him and they could celebrate together. He’d even sent Jeonghan his own rose, a single red one with a black ribbon tied in a bow near the center of the stem. Somehow it was by far the most beautiful flower in the room and Jeonghan twirled it in his fingers, thorns gently pressing against his skin. Perhaps his tutor would finally show himself tonight. Jeonghan smiled at the thought, a different sort of adrenaline beginning to run through his veins now. Jeonghan hoped he was proud of him; they’d spent so long rehearsing every line, every choreographed move in the silent darkness of the cellars and finally the part was his.

_Did he have anything to do with it?_

The thought left a strange feeling in his gut, something akin to indigestion, and Jeonghan sighed. He wouldn’t let stray thoughts like that ruin his night, especially when they weren’t true. No, he’d gotten the part because he’d worked hard for it, he _deserved_ it, and because Boo Seungkwan was too melodramatic for his own good sometimes.

Those were the reasons and nothing else. Besides, how would his angel have even done something like that? It was an absurd thought, really, and -

_“Jeonghan.”_

He exhaled on a lower note and immediately turned his head to search the dark corners of the dressing room, the ones the few candles on the table could not light. He saw his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall, dressed in a loose white shirt and the black pants from the performance, collarbone-length hair still done up in waves. Jeonghan hoped _he_ would like it. And in the silence his halted singing gave, he listened. “Master?”

 _“Jeonghan?”_ The voice was closer, accompanied by footsteps, and then the door opened.

Sweet Chan stood there, clutching a small bouquet of roses with a shy grin and red cheeks.

Jeonghan smiled back, trying not to let his disappointment show. Besides, he and his angel would have time together tonight and Jeonghan actually wanted to talk with Chan. Wanted to share in his achievement with someone who loved him. “Hi Channie.”

The younger boy grinned wider and stepped into the room, closing the door. “Hi Han!” he chirped, and then he thrust the bouquet out towards Jeonghan. “These are for you, from me and Wonwoo.”

Heart melting, Jeonghan set his master’s rose down and took the new ones, immediately bringing them to his nose; their sweet scent filled his nostrils and he smiled wide. He knew how much this would’ve cost the two of them, how much this meant to them, so he set the flowers down and drew Chan into a tight hug. “Thank you so much, Channie. Is Wonwoo around too? Can I thank him?”

“I think he’s talking with the new managers again. They ran into the Vicomte.”

 _Oh. That’s right._ Seungcheol had been in the audience as well. Jeonghan tried not to grin at this, biting his lip to try and hide it. “Oh.”

Chan smirked, reaching out to play with one of the stray flowers littering the table Jeonghan sat at. “He looked enamored with you, Han. Do you really know him from your childhood?”

This time Jeonghan really couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face at the memories that came to mind. Sitting beside Seungcheol while the older boy worked on his studies, singing quietly because he knew Seungcheol liked his voice. Shirking their responsibilities to play in the first snow of every winter and almost dying of frostbite. “I do. I’ve known him since I was born and we just… we were best friends from the start,” he said softly, aware of the nostalgic tone his voice had taken. “I can’t believe he’s the new patron. It’s like fate or something.”

“You should talk to him,” Chan said. “Reconnect.”

“I doubt he remembers me.” It was like an instinct, to deflect and refuse. He couldn’t handle the rejection. “Besides, I-I’m certain he’s busy with… whatever it is vicomtes do.”

Chan sighed and gave Jeonghan that look, the one he gave whenever he didn’t like Jeonghan’s excuses, but he let it go. “So are you going to celebrate with this tutor of yours tonight?”

Another reason to smile, except this time Jeonghan tried again to hide it. “I’d like to, yes. I mean, it’s all because of him. Without his guidance I would not have made it this far.”

“You know,” Chan said around a sigh, brown eyes glancing all around the room, “you’ve been talking about this tutor for years and I’ve never even met him. What’s his name, at least?”

Jeonghan hesitated, remembering the last time he asked his angel for his name. How he’d refused and stayed hidden in the shadows. “I… well, I don’t actually know,” he said quietly, looking down at the flowers on the table. “I’ve technically never met him either. He just sort of talks to me. I never see him but I hear his voice.” Picking up one of the roses too he gently pressed his fingertip against a thorn, ignoring Chan’s gaze burning into him. “I know it sounds strange but - well, you remember how I told you a few years ago that my parents were very musical people?”

“Sure,” Chan said softly. “Your mother was a singer, right, and your father a violinist?”

He nodded, and the memories came back to him. “Our house was always full of music, even after my mother died. And then… and then my father got sick too. Before he passed, he told me that he would send me an angel of music from heaven. That the angel would stay with me, guide me, love me the way my parents had. That with him, I wouldn’t be alone. And then I came here and this voice called to me.”

A lump caught in his throat as he remembered that moment, four months after he was brought here. As soon as he’d heard his angel’s voice any loneliness in his soul had disappeared. Chased away by such a heavenly figure who was there for him. “He took me down into the cellars and taught me everything I know. And he’s there in a way no one else has been in years. Not even… not even Wonwoo. He protects me.”

The other boy was quiet for a few moments. “Is that why you were down there last night? He was coaching you?”

“He was. We’ve been going over Seungkwan’s part for months now. He-he was adamant that I should memorize it.” A wry grin crossed Jeonghan’s lips. “I suppose it’s a good thing he thought so.”

“Hmm. And you believe this voice to be an angel, sent by your father?”

Hearing the disbelief in Chan’s voice, Jeonghan finally met his gaze. The younger boy looked at him with nothing but concern in his warm brown eyes and Jeonghan sighed. “Who else could he be?”

“I just… I worry about you, Han,” he whispered, placing his hand over Jeonghan’s, the one playing with the rose still. “You’re not sleeping lately.”

“I… he’s strict,” Jeonghan muttered, looking away again, knowing how weak his explanation sounded. Knowing that he must’ve sounded foolish.

“And he doesn’t even let you see him?”

“He says it’s easier that way.” He couldn’t help the snap in his voice, how quickly he rose to his angel’s defense. He was an _angel_ ; he couldn’t do wrong.

Could he?

“What’s easier that way?” Chan asked.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted them (thank God) and it opened, revealing a man in a fancy black suit, no doubt expensive; raven curls styled off his forehead; a rather large bouquet of flowers; and a bright, familiar smile.

“Cheollie,” Jeonghan whispered, warmth spreading through his body.

Choi Seungcheol’s smile widened, if at all possible, and his deep dark eyes shone in the candlelight. “Jeonghan.”

Chan stood up, pushing his chair back with a grating _squeak!_ and bowed low. “Vicomte, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I-I’m - my name is Lee Chan and - “

Seungcheol laughed softly, the same laugh Jeonghan knew years ago, and he placed a hand on Chan’s shoulder. Raising him back to his full height, he grinned. “Wonwoo’s brother, yes?” When Chan nodded, Seungcheol squeezed his shoulder. “You really don’t have to bow, Chan, but thank you. And you can also call me Seungcheol. I never much cared for titles.” His dark eyes flickered back to Jeonghan for the briefest of moments and Jeonghan blushed, liking the look in them.

_God, what a night indeed._

“Al-all right, Seungcheol,” Chan stuttered. With one glance back at Jeonghan he nodded. “Right. I’ll leave you two be.” He flashed Jeonghan a smirk and then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Alone with Seungcheol - _when did he get so damned handsome?_ \- Jeonghan’s heart started to pound. It sounded so loud in the silence that ensued and he wondered why he was so nervous.

“Look at you Hannie,” Cheol said, something thick in his deep voice, warm in his kind eyes. “A big, famous opera star.”

He blushed, face heating up, and an embarrassed smile crossed his lips. “I-I’m really not. Just filling in for Seungkwan and - “

“You were amazing tonight. Stunning.”

Their eyes met once more and they both smiled. “You’re just saying that.”

“Hardly.” He placed the bouquet on the table next to Chan and Wonwoo’s before perching himself on the edge. A soft smile curled his plush lips and oh, he was just so _handsome._ “I always knew you’d make it, Hannie. I could tell even when you danced around my parents’ parlor in your best suits all those years ago.”

Jeonghan laughed at the memory touching his mind with warmth. So much had changed since then and yet Seungcheol could still make him laugh easily. “Oh shush. I haven’t ‘made it’ yet, Cheollie. Tonight was only my debut.”

“And what a debut it was! You were dazzling, Jeonghan, and you’re all _anyone_ can talk about.”

Trying to distract himself from the way his face continued to heat up, Jeonghan reached for the new set of flowers and brought them up to sniff them, too. He definitely loved the sweet scent of roses, he decided. And then he met Seungcheol’s gaze once more. “I never thought I would see you again,” he whispered.

Seungcheol sighed, his handsome face falling. “I know and I’m sorry. I-I should’ve… fought for my parents to adopt you or _find_ someone to adopt you or - something. I’ve always felt awful. You must’ve been so alone.”

Dark thoughts threatened his composure and Jeonghan shrugged them away. _Not tonight._ “I survived, didn’t I?”

“You did indeed.” With another soft smile he said, “Come to dinner with me, Hannie. It’s been so long and we ought to catch up. I want to hear everything about your life here.”

The idea was so tempting and Jeonghan wanted to say yes. But tugging at his heart he could feel _him_ , his angel. “I want to, but I shouldn’t. There’s someone else I need to celebrate with.”

“Oh? Who?”

Embarrassment flamed his cheeks once more as he remembered the way Chan had reacted - who knew how Seungcheol, who'd only now come back to his life after a decade, would react to it? “I… well, it’s my tutor. He’s the reason I was even able to debut tonight so I ought to celebrate with him too. Spend some time with him.”

Seungcheol brushed the comment away with a wave of his hand. “He can join us; the more the merrier.”

The idea was only a tad bit frightening; Jeonghan’s former childhood friend ( _childhood sweetheart?)_ sitting down to eat with the angel of music that stole Jeonghan away in the night; the angel of music that made him feel… less than angelic things. And then there was the issue that angels were not corporeal beings and, as such, could not engage in such activities. But that was hardly the issue Jeonghan focused on - no, he thought about the times over the last several years in which his angel refused him from seeing some of his fellow dancers as romantic interests. How he'd said that true artists do not have time for such trivial pursuits.

_He wouldn't like Seungcheol then._

“No,” Jeonghan said with a shake of his head, words trying and failing on his tongue. “He - no, it’s - we…”

The smile left Seungcheol’s face almost immediately. “Ah. I see. You and he are…”

He trailed off, leaving Jeonghan to attempt to decipher his words. And the moment he did he felt his face heat up even more at what Seungcheol was insinuating. “No! We aren’t - I mean… he’s just - he’s not fond of people. Or of going out.”

“Well, I could wait till after you spent time with him,” Cheol said softly, reaching out to place his hand on Jeonghan’s. His hand was warm and familiar, thumb stroking over Jeonghan’s skin. Comforting and patient, as he always has been. “I just really want to see you, Hannie.”

“And I want to see you too, Cheol.” He liked the way Seungcheol looked at him, like he hung the moon and stars in the sky, and he leaned in closer without even thinking about it. He felt drawn to Seungcheol, like he might disappear if Jeonghan didn't keep him close. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” His eyes searched Jeonghan’s face and another smile touched his lips. But it was softer, more mature. “God, you’ve really grown up, Jeonghan. So handsome.”

Jeonghan blushed once more - would he ever stop? - and met Cheol’s gaze with a smile of his own. “So have you.”

Seungcheol gave his knuckles one last stroke before standing up again. “Don’t take too long with your tutor, Hannie. I’ll be down with my horses, waiting.” And after one final smile, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft _click_.

Jeonghan was left in silence, amidst a sea of flowers, candlelight growing lower, wondering just how his life had come to this. He’d made his starring debut and reunited with his oldest friend all in one day. A good day to say the least. _But it’s not over_ , he thought as he looked to the shadows, adrenaline once again thrumming through his veins.

His angel’s voice always put him on edge, like the best sort of alcohol. The sort that could make one tipsy after a few sips. The sort that makes one feel like they're walking on air. And he couldn’t _wait._ Couldn’t wait to hear him, to feel his presence. Perhaps even see him. God, and he’d be so proud of Jeonghan wouldn’t he? Finally making his debut after so long, after so much work and coaching and longing. And he wanted his angel’s praise, _craved_ it. It would feel wonderful.

He glanced at the mirror again, leaning back in his chair as he caught the dark gaze of his own reflection staring back at him. Attentive eyes. Rigid back. Restless fingers once again finding purchase on that single rose, wrapped in black. And then he closed his eyes and sat in silence. Listening.

Footsteps echoing. Maybe outside the hall. Soft chatter. Gentle singing. And then the hairs on the back of Jeonghan’s neck stood up.

_He’s here._

“Master?” Jeonghan asked the cool, empty air, eyes still closed.

“Jeonghan.”

A shiver ran through his body at the deep timbre of his angel’s voice, and he smiled. “You’re here. I knew you’d come.”

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t miss your debut for the world, Jeonghan.”

He grinned, unable to stop it. “Did I do well?”

“You were dazzling. Absolutely riveting. I could not take my eyes off of you.”

“You’re - you don’t mean that,” he whispered, wanting to hear more. Wanting to spend the rest of the night listening to his angel’s praise.

“I do.” When he spoke next his voice was hardened. “And it seems the Vicomte is rather taken with you as well.”

Jeonghan’s breath caught in his throat. How had he seen that? How did he _know_? _He's an angel._ So he spluttered, trying to find words. Once more he would be at the receiving end of his angel’s ire. The last place he wanted to be. “I - I’m sorry, angel, forgive me. I didn’t - I - he’s only a friend, nothing more. I swear it.”

After so many moments of anger, Jeonghan knew just how to apologize now.

“Is that right?”

“Yes, master, I swear.”

His angel was silent for a few moments, and Jeonghan spent those moments praying he hadn’t angered him away again. _Not tonight,_ he begged in his thoughts. And then: “He’s a fool, Jeonghan. He thinks he can just come to you and preen and fawn over you simply because you’ve debuted?”

The words sounded wrong, foreign. Like an entirely different language. They had trouble settling in Jeonghan’s brain and he frowned. “What - what do you mean?”

“He only wants you for your status now, Jeonghan. He only wants you for your voice, for your beauty. Why else would he have come to you tonight?”

 _He’s right,_ a small voice spoke up at the back of his mind. _Seungcheol could have spent the last decade trying to find you, and yet…_

Jeonghan shook his head, trying to brush the thoughts away. He remembered how he and Seungcheol would spend almost every waking moment together as children. How Seungcheol looked at him tonight. How _proud_ he seemed. And Jeonghan wondered if his angel’s words were true. “He’s my friend,” he said quietly, and he wasn’t certain exactly who he was trying to convince.

“Is he?” After a moment, his voice softened again and it made Jeonghan shiver. “You trust me, don’t you? Would I ever lie to you? Hurt you?”

“No,” Jeonghan whispered automatically, knowing that to be true. “I trust you, master.”

“Good.”

Jeonghan took a breath and murmured, “Are you proud of me?”

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He wanted, he _needed_ to hear them, needed to hear his angel say he was proud of him. More than anything else.

“Yes Jeonghan,” he said, “I am so proud of you. And the audience _loved_ you, angel. You heard the way they clapped for you. This won’t be the last time you lead a performance. I promise.”

He tried not to think about that, about how much he already wanted more. But Seungkwan wasn’t gone for good, which meant Jeonghan had no other choice but to relegate himself back to the chorus when their long-running star returned. Which he was content with. Mostly. “Do you think I deserve it?” he asked the darkness, wondering where exactly his angel was hiding himself.

“Of course I do. You know better than to ask such foolish questions.”

“Yes master,” he mumbled on instinct. Taking another slow, deep breath, he scanned the room. The candles were growing even lower now, flickering weakly, losing their battle against the night, and Jeonghan _wished_ he could see his angel. Wished he could see the pride in his eyes as he looked at Jeonghan. And he deserved that too, didn’t he? He’d been working so diligently for a long time, and he did so well tonight. He’d earned it. A reward. So, heart pounding, he spoke to the shadows. “Master?”

“Yes angel?”

He hesitated still, heartbeat drowning out any other sounds, hoping he wasn’t still upset about Seungcheol. Hoping he would agree. “I want to see you,” he whispered. “Please, let me see you.”

For a moment he worried he hadn’t been heard, or that he’d accidentally angered his angel even more. But then there was a soft “open your eyes and come to the mirror” and Jeonghan willed himself to not jump up from his chair. He did as he was told, taking slow steps, eyeing his reflection once again, and then he stopped in front of the mirror. There was nothing but himself staring back, a sea of forgotten roses behind him, candles all but extinguished.

“Angel?” he asked quietly.

“Jeonghan,” he rumbled and Jeonghan’s heart began to pound because he knew, somehow, his angel was on the other side of that mirror. “You will understand why I kept myself hidden from you for so long. I only hope you will not reject me once you see me - “

“I could never,” Jeonghan responded in a single breath, and he believed it to be true. Whatever lay on the other side of that mirror he knew he would not be able to resist. _“Please,_ master. Let me see you.”

In all the years he’d been living at the opera house he had never heard of a secret door in the main dressing room, hidden behind the mirror, and he certainly had never heard of a secret passageway behind said door. But there he stood, watching as the door swung inwards, revealing a tall, broad man in an impeccable suit and -

_That mask._

Jeonghan was paralyzed as he took in the sight before him, as he took in the man - _is he even a man?_ \- before him. Now this, this _creature_ , he’d heard of before. How could he not, when he’d been terrorizing the opera house for longer than Jeonghan had been there? How could he not, when he was all anyone could talk about? From the accidents this - this _spirit_ had caused - ghostly voices - the deaths...

And then suddenly everything began making sense. Why he hid himself from Jeonghan all those years, why he’d been so insistent on rehearsing _Hannibal_ every night, why the backdrop had fallen on Seungkwan opening day, after a slew of other "accidents" during rehearsals, and so much more that Jeonghan couldn’t even remember at that moment.

“It’s you,” he whispered, looking up to meet dark eyes - one framed in white. “The phantom.”

He - _the phantom!_ \- nodded, a somber look on his partially-masked face. God he was so much more… human than Jeonghan would have thought. All the stories the stagehands told made him sound like some gruesome, faceless monster but in reality he wasn’t. Well Jeonghan couldn’t speak for what was hidden underneath the mask but as for what he _could_ see… “You’re - not actually a ghost, are you?” He knew it was a silly question, one that was easily answered with a simple look, but he couldn’t help it. The phantom haunting the opera was nothing more than a man.

A man Jeonghan had spent almost a decade’s worth of nights following into the shadows.

A man Jeonghan thought to be an angel sent from heaven.

A man Jeonghan trusted more than he knew he should.

“Hardly,” the phantom said, in that sinfully smooth voice Jeonghan had come to love. He never thought he would get to hear that voice in anything but a disembodied whisper. It made his skin tingle. “But that is decidedly an easier story to fabricate than the truth.” He reached out a long arm, gloved hand outstretched, face set in a way that Jeonghan couldn’t read. “Take my hand, angel. I won’t hurt you, remember? It’s still me, and you know me.”

The nickname ignited something inside him and he bit his lip, glancing down at the gloved hand before him. This _was_ his angel, after all. How long had they spent together? How long had Jeonghan known him? He had been this - this _phantom_ the entire time, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t hurt Jeonghan. No, he _wouldn’t_ hurt him, Jeonghan knew. “I trust you,” he whispered again. Breathing in, Jeonghan took his hand.

Even through the fabric encasing it, he could feel the warmth of his skin. It was dangerous, igniting something inside Jeonghan. Something he couldn’t describe, something he couldn’t put his finger on. But he liked it all the same.

The phantom smiled. “Come with me.” And his gloved thumb stroked over Jeonghan’s knuckles. It was a familiar gesture, just not from him, and something in the back of Jeonghan’s mind tried to piece it together.

Like a warning.

But Jeonghan did not heed it. No, because for reasons he could not explain – even to this day – he would follow wherever this man led him.

Even to his own undoing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! <3


	4. three: lead me into temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags have been updated a bit....
> 
> enjoy! <3

**three: lead me into temptation**

Kwon Soonyoung was talking but Wonwoo wasn’t listening. No, he was more interested in the way Choi Seungcheol was also not concentrating on the other man. Why the charming young Vicomte seemed so… distracted. Together, with Soonyoung and Seokmin, the men walked the backstage halls of the opera house and the latter two kept attempting to engage Seungcheol in conversation. Generally inane topics at that, ranging from his hobbies to his favorite foods. To Wonwoo at least, it was an obvious bid to garner his attention, his friendship. _You already have his money,_ Wonwoo wanted to say, _so what’s all this?_ But he didn’t; he just walked quietly, eying Seungcheol out of his peripheral.

The man was glancing around like he was lost. Or looking for something. Peeking behind doors without missing a step and staring at every… blonde person that walked by? Wonwoo smirked to himself, remembering the way Seungcheol had watched the performance. How he had seen Seungcheol, from his own vantage point on the catwalks, falling in love with Yoon Jeonghan. The way everyone else was.

 _This could… complicate things,_ his mind told him. _If the Vicomte decides to stay around here long enough._

_Mingyu won’t like it if he does._

Wonwoo sighed inwardly at the thought. Mingyu wasn’t fond of much, but if there was something he hated above all else it was anything that threatened his relationship with his precious Yoon Jeonghan. God and if there were something he was indeed fond of, it was Yoon Jeonghan. _Everything_ to him was Jeonghan. Wonwoo could only wonder how the night would unfold for the two of them; the last few weeks he’d had to listen to Mingyu’s constant plotting, constant blathering about how amazing Jeonghan would be in Seungkwan’s place onstage. Watching the way his eyes lit up as he spoke about the object of his obsession.

Glancing over at the Vicomte again, Wonwoo suppressed a smirk. He’d wish the man luck but Mingyu, decidedly, would not approve. Instead he asked a simple, “looking for something, Vicomte?” and the man met his gaze quickly, with comically wide eyes. Like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“Uh, well - since you asked… I am, actually.”

“Oh?” This from Seokmin.

“I… believe I know your leading man,” Seungcheol said softly and the gentlest of smiles touched his lips. _Wonderful._ “At least, I used to know him. When we were children.”

“What a small world,” Wonwoo said.

Seungcheol looked at him in a way Wonwoo didn’t like but figured he deserved. “Indeed.” He turned his attention back to the owners and that smile returned. It made him look his young age. Like a boy in love. “I was actually wondering where I could find him. So I could congratulate him.”

“Of course!” Soonyoung said, jumping at the chance to please the Vicomte.

Wonwoo resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Suddenly their aimless journey through backstage had a point: reunite Choi Seungcheol with his long-lost childhood love. Something that, Wonwoo knew, would only thrill Mingyu to no end. With a sigh, Wonwoo gave the Vicomte simple directions from their current spot and held Soonyoung and Seokmin back.

“He doesn’t need you two to accompany him everywhere,” he huffed, watching as Seungcheol all but skipped down the halls, apologizing profusely when he accidentally bumped into some dancers. “Let him woo Jeonghan in peace.”

Seokmin looked at him with a raised brow. “He’s not - “

“Of course he is, Monsieur Lee. You didn’t see the way he looked at him during the show.”

Soonyoung grinned wide, eyes almost completely closing. “That’s actually sort of sweet. Childhood sweethearts reuniting after who knows how long. All because a backdrop fell on top of Seungkwan.”

Wonwoo almost laughed aloud at the irony.

The tunnel behind the mirror took them down, down into the heart of the opera house. Jeonghan did not recognize a single step and yet fear was the furthest thing from his mind. Even as they went deeper, even as the air turned damp and cold, even as Jeonghan knew there would be no going back, he was not afraid. He held tightly to his angel’s gloved hand and followed where he went. The way was long and lit by a torch the taller man held. And God, was he _tall._ Jeonghan figured he himself was about average height but there was something about the phantom that was so… broad.

_Handsome._

He bit his lip at the thought, face heating up. After the stories he’d heard from the stagehands, he expected someone of the Phantom’s reputation to be more… gruesome. They always said he was faceless, hiding beneath the opera house, behind a mask because he couldn’t stand people looking at him. They said he was a killer, invariably on the hunt for unwitting victims.

They said he held no regard for mortal life.

But that couldn’t be farther from the angel - the man - Jeonghan knew. He most definitely had a face; was full of seemingly endless praises, gentle hands the few times he’d known them. A part of Jeonghan found himself wondering how much of what happened at the opera house the last several years had been, in fact, accidents. Stagehands taking a wrong step and plunging to their deaths, as opposed to being pushed because they’d seen the Phantom. Props and objects being stolen or misplaced, instead of taken by a devilish spirit. Backdrops falling because they weren’t secured right.

Because there was no way, in his mind, this man could’ve done any of that with malicious intent.

Not with how tightly he held Jeonghan’s hand. Not with how sweet and sincere his praise always was.

Jeonghan could feel the warmth of his skin through the black glove and he clung to that heat. His angel was _here._ They were together.

“Where are we?” Jeonghan asked quietly, voice nothing more than a soft whisper, as they neared a large room that the tunnel seemed to dead-end into. It was spacious and lit by what had to have been hundreds of candles, and the way it was decorated suggested someone _lived_ here. “I had no idea this even existed.”

“There’s so much you don’t know, Jeonghan.” He turned towards him once more, dark eyes seeking his out. “But that’s why I’m here, hm? To teach you.”

His gaze was electrifying, and it rooted Jeonghan to the spot. Paralyzed him. “I… what else don’t I know, angel?”

A smirk crossed his lips and he let go of Jeonghan’s hand. And Jeonghan was about to protest, craving his touch like nothing he’d ever felt before, when the phantom reached out to brush long fingers along his cheekbone. Through the glove Jeonghan could still feel the heat of his skin and he closed his eyes, wanting more, needing more. The fingers stroked over Jeonghan’s skin, down to his jaw, burning and leaving goosebumps in their wake - and then the phantom grasped his chin with his thumb and forefinger. The breath stuttered in Jeonghan’s throat.

“Look at me, Jeonghan,” he whispered.

Jeonghan opened his eyes, once again rendered immobile by his intense gaze, and even though a part of him liked the way his angel looked at him another part of him felt… strange. The look in his eyes made the hair at the back of Jeonghan’s neck stand up. There was something wicked there, something dark. Something that made him want to shrink away.

“Do you trust me?” his angel asked.

“Yes,” Jeonghan said automatically.

“Then come with me. There’s so much I can show you, so much I can teach you.”

The grip on his chin softened, fingers moving once again across his skin. His gloved hand slipped behind Jeonghan’s neck and he held him there. They were even closer now, the phantom’s warm breath on his skin, and Jeonghan ached. “Your name,” he whispered, sounding to his own ears like a faraway dream. “I - I don’t know your name.”

For a moment, the phantom was quiet and - like he always did in these silent moments - Jeonghan worried. Worried that he’d angered him. Worried that he’d said too much, _asked_ too much of him. It left a bitter taste in his mouth and he wanted to pull away from his angel’s grasp but he was held too tightly.

“My name,” the phantom said eventually, “is Mingyu.”

“Mingyu,” Jeonghan whispered, and he liked the way it rolled off of his tongue, the way it sounded in his voice.

The phantom’s - _Mingyu’s_ \- eyes closed at the sound and he breathed deeply, fingers winding into Jeonghan’s hair. And then he pulled away, eyes open, reaching for Jeonghan’s hand again. “Come. We’re all but there.”

“What is ‘there’?” Jeonghan asked, easily slipping his hand back into Mingyu’s grasp.

“My home.”

As they reached the end of the tunnel, Jeonghan stood and took everything in. Mingyu’s dwelling was hardly what Jeonghan expected. Of course, he didn’t quite know _what_ to expect but finding old props from past performances wasn’t it. Candelabras he remembered being reported as “stolen”, pieces of furniture that had “gone missing”. Fabrics and clothing the seamstresses complained were “disappearing”. Of course it had all ended up here. And just like that the benefit of the doubt he’d tried to give his angel faded and Jeonghan was left with the conclusion that perhaps he didn’t know this man as well as he’d liked to hope.

He let go of Mingyu’s hand and took a few exploratory steps, eying the massive organ taking up one side. It was grander than the one in the auditorium and he wondered if its creation and installation had come out of the salary Mingyu demanded?

And despite the candles that were lit, the room was still dark. Shadowy. But Jeonghan knew Mingyu preferred it that way, and from the years he had spent sneaking down to the cellars Jeonghan was not afraid of the dark.

Turning back to Mingyu as he gently touched the keys on the organ, Jeonghan frowned a bit. “You live here?”

“Indeed. Do you like it?” Mingyu watched him with a fond expression and Jeonghan couldn’t help but wonder how many people he’d had down here.

Probably not many.

“I… it’s - not what I thought.”

Once again breaking Jeonghan’s expectations, a smile spread across Mingyu’s lips. The right corner of his lips, the one not quite covered by the mask, curved up a bit oddly. And even from the small distance between them Jeonghan could make out the edges of scars he hadn’t noticed before. Edges of scars seeping out from beneath the mask, like a dismaying promise.

Mingyu’s smile showed off his teeth. Two particularly sharp teeth, his canines, pressed into his bottom lip and a shiver slid down Jeonghan’s spine.

“You expected something more monstrous, hm? Mausoleums, tombs, corpses - right?”

Jeonghan’s mouth went dry as he watched Mingyu approach him. “Um. I’m not sure what I expected, in all honesty. You’re so… different than anything I could’ve imagined, master.”

“Am I?” He reached for Jeonghan again, strong hands gripping his waist, and pulled him close. Jeonghan’s heart leapt into his throat. And as Mingyu looked at him, that wicked glint touched his eyes again. “I must say, angel, _you_ are much different than I expected, as well.”

“Wh-what do you mean? You see me most every night.”

“I do,” he whispered, leaning even closer, “but I don’t hold you like this. I don’t touch you like this.” He released his grasp on Jeonghan for a moment to pull his gloves off, letting them fall to the ground. Like an afterthought. And then one hand returned to his waist and the other cupped the back of his neck again.

Jeonghan gasped softly, unable to stop it, when the heat of Mingyu’s hand pressed against his own bare skin. And he’d never felt this way before; never craved someone’s touch like this before. Never needed someone like this before. “You’ve - you’ve thought about touching me?” he whispered, brain working to try and form coherent sentences.

“Of course I have.” His thumb came up to stroke along his cheekbone once more, skin hot like fire. “You’re handsome, Jeonghan. Beautiful. Of course I’ve been wanting to touch you.”

“Then why have you waited this long?” Jeonghan asked.

“I needed to know that you wouldn’t spurn me. That you would not turn away from me.” He hesitates before speaking again. “I did not know how you might react, knowing… knowing who I truly am. But I swear I am not the monster they claim me to be.”

“I know,” Jeonghan whispers, and the words feel true. “And Master, I could never spurn you. I didn’t spurn you when you came to me, all those years ago. As my angel of music.”

“I know,” Mingyu whispered, “which is why I chose tonight to reveal myself to you. To bring you down here. Tonight is special, and you did so well. I wanted to reward you.” His thumb slipped down and ran across Jeonghan’s lips. And his eyes followed the movement, sending a deliciously hot stab of desire through Jeonghan’s body. “I’m happy you’re here with me, Jeonghan.”

“I’m happy too,” he whispered.

The hand on Jeonghan’s waist tightened its grip and Jeonghan closed his eyes. There was a pressure against his forehead then; he felt the warmth of skin and the coolness of - of whatever material Mingyu’s mask was made from. Hot breath fanned his face and Jeonghan wanted Mingyu to kiss him. He’d fantasized about it more often than he probably should have. Especially late at night, waiting to hear his angel’s voice. Late at night when Chan was in his own bunk and Jeonghan was alone, yearning to be touched. And clearly, his angel had thought about it as well. Was it so wrong?

“Jeonghan,” Mingyu breathed, sounding like sin.

As he always was with his angel, Jeonghan was paralyzed and he allowed Mingyu to tilt his head up, closing the distance between them, hands burning hot on his skin. Up close like this he had a better view of the small scars peeking out from under the mask. They were pale and embedded in his skin, wisping along the bridge of his nose.

Like fire.

But looking at him, Jeonghan couldn’t speak; he just watched Mingyu’s gaze drop to his lips for a moment and then back to his own eyes.

“Let me show you how much I want you,” he whispered, eyes dark and wicked and scorching Jeonghan’s soul. “How much I love you, Jeonghan.”

 _Oh._ Liquid heat pooled in his belly at his angel’s words and he whispered a trembling “yes” on an exhale.

Mingyu smirked and drew him closer. Their bodies touched, hips to hips, chests to chests, and Jeonghan closed his eyes with a sharp breath in. “Impatient, are we?”

God, he was _teasing._ His lips hovered just above Jeonghan’s and Jeonghan wanted nothing more than to pull him to him and let Mingyu claim his mouth. But he couldn’t move. Could barely breathe, not with how close they were. Not with the way Mingyu was pressed flush against him. “I-I,” he tried, “I just…”

“You’ve never been touched like this before, have you angel?” he whispered as he gently tugged at Jeonghan’s hair, tilting his head to the side.

A shiver ripped through his body as Mingyu’s warm breath fanned his neck, lips brushing his skin. Stomach clenching, lightheaded, he gripped Mingyu’s suit jacket. “I - uh, n-no. I haven’t.”

“So I would be your first.”

It wasn’t a question but Jeonghan still replied, gasping so softly when he felt the press of Mingyu’s lips against his throat. “Y-yes.” And the thought _thrilled_ him to no end, Mingyu being the first man to have him like that, _claim_ him like that. Tangled in his sheets, candles flickering in the shadows, surrounded by the warmth and the scents and the feel of him. Letting him know him in a way no one else did. Giving himself up completely to this man. His angel.

Mingyu sighed against his neck, lips touching his pulse - which Jeonghan knew was thrumming wildly already, he could feel it. “You would be my first too.”

The words, whispered into his skin like a kiss, made his knees weak and he drew back, needing to look at him. Needing to know that what he spoke was true. Their eyes met and Jeonghan bit his own lip. “Really?”

“Yes,” Mingyu whispered. “Would I lie to you, Jeonghan?”

With a shaking hand, Jeonghan reached up and touched the edge of the mask. Would he take it off, if Jeonghan asked? Would he too give Jeonghan everything that was his, the way Jeonghan planned to do with him? “No, master.”

His hand left Jeonghan’s waist to cover his at the mask. Something in his eyes softened and Jeonghan wanted to melt in that look. “You’re here, and you’re all mine. Aren’t you, angel?”

“Yes,” Jeonghan breathed, the truth of it evident in the way he clung tighter to Mingyu, in the way warmth began spreading through his body, from that pit in his stomach. “I’m yours, Mingyu.”

“Show me,” he murmured darkly. “Show me that you belong to me, angel.”

Jeonghan wrapped his arms around his waist and in the same moment Mingyu cupped his jaw with his strong hands. They were so close, fire burning the air between them, and with a simple tilt of his hands, Mingyu pulled Jeonghan up for a kiss.

And it was nothing Jeonghan had ever known before.

It brought back memories of furtive kisses in the dark with some of the other dancers; hands roaming when they were supposed to be sleeping, teeth hitting teeth and gasps turning into breathless giggles because someone accidentally kissed the other’s chin. No, this kiss was nothing like those. Those were playful, exploratory. This kiss was... it was firm. Confident. Like Mingyu had wanted nothing more than this for too long. Which, based off his words, was no doubt true.

He kissed with a ravenous hunger that threatened to consume Jeonghan, and he was more than willing to let it. Mingyu’s tongue slid over his, hands gripping his jaw, bodies pressed together, and it was simultaneously too much and not enough. They kissed until Jeonghan was gently pushing at his chest, until he needed breath - and then Mingyu’s mouth was on his neck, kissing, nipping, at his skin. Sucking at his pulse. Biting marks into his flesh that Jeonghan hoped would not disappear come morning; he wanted more than just the memory. Wanted something tangible that would remind him of what they had shared.

And then Mingyu’s mouth was back on his in another rough kiss. Jeonghan wanted to melt into his touch; they were so impossibly close and yet he wanted more. Needed more. Mingyu’s tongue curled against his and lust pooled deep in Jeonghan’s belly, hot like fire. Hands began roaming, pushing at each other’s clothing, trying to find even the smallest expanse of bare skin because the desire to _touch_ Mingyu, to _feel_ him was so overwhelming Jeonghan almost hated it. Almost.

His hands slid down Mingyu’s firm stomach, brushing over the soft fabric of his shirt, and the noise Mingyu moaned against his mouth was enough to make Jeonghan’s knees weak. And he liked that sound. Wanted to hear it more. Jeonghan slipped his hands further down his front with the intention of making him moan again - until his fingertips brushed against the hardness already straining against Mingyu’s pants. Mingyu swallowed the gasp Jeonghan emitted before breaking their kiss with a sharp breath, leaning his forehead against Jeonghan’s again, eyes downcast. Their breaths mingled in pants as his hands drifted to Jeonghan’s shirt.

“I’ve been wanting this for so long, angel,” he whispered.

“M-me too,” Jeonghan stuttered, his brain working harder than usual to try and form even the simplest of words. Any other instance and he’d be upset with himself for being so easily flustered. But this was _Mingyu_ , Mingyu who knew exactly how to make him fall apart. And he liked that.

Mingyu watched as his own hands began to unbutton Jeonghan’s shirt, clasp by clasp. He was careful not to touch Jeonghan’s bare skin and by the time he reached the hem Jeonghan was ready to beg. But then Mingyu gently pushed the fabric from his shoulders, tugging the sleeves off, and the garment pooled around his ankles. His pants and underwear soon followed, Mingyu’s strong hands pulling them down Jeonghan’s legs until they too rested on the ground. And then Mingyu was on his knees, Jeonghan standing before him completely and utterly bare.

It was the most exposed he’d ever been in front of another and he wanted nothing more than to cover himself up again. He couldn’t even meet Mingyu’s gaze, choosing instead to stare behind him at the organ. Not even the soft, appreciative noise Mingyu uttered could make him look down, but it _did_ send another stab of pleasure through his body. Straight between his legs. He closed his eyes.

“Look at you, angel,” Mingyu whispered, voice so smooth and wicked, breath tickling the jut of his hip.

Jeonghan trembled. A fresh wave of warmth swept through his body, sliding down his spine, and he itched to pull Mingyu closer. To feel his hands and mouth on him. But Mingyu continued to tease him by remaining just out of reach, strong hands sliding up Jeonghan’s bare thighs. Fire sparked beneath his skin at Mingyu’s touch and goddamn it, it was already too much. Especially when Mingyu’s mouth brushed against his hipbone in a butterfly kiss and a high, breathless sound left Jeonghan’s lips.

“So hard already,” Mingyu breathed near his skin, fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. “So hard for me.”

“Mingyu,” he whispered. “Please, I…”

“What, angel? What do you need?”

What did he need, indeed. His head spun far too quickly for him to latch onto any lucid thoughts and all he knew is that he craved Mingyu’s touch. Wanted his lips and hands everywhere at once. “You,” he breathed. “Please, I-I need you.”

The ground shifted beneath Mingyu’s boots and he must have stood up because the next thing Jeonghan knew he was wrapped in a pair of strong arms, Mingyu’s mouth finding its way back along his jaw. He kissed with a deep, pulsing pressure, no doubt leaving another mark. The ladies who applied his stage makeup would probably have a hell of a time trying to cover all this up tomorrow but Jeonghan found that he didn’t quite care. Especially when Mingyu drew back and their eyes finally met. His gaze was hot and half-lidded, desire pooling there, and Jeonghan _loved_ it, loved the way it made the muscles in his abdomen clench.

“Lay on the bed,” Mingyu said quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

Jeonghan did as he was told, letting his body sink into the soft, silky sheets. They were far more expensive than anything Jeonghan could ever dream of owning once more and he closed his eyes to revel in the feel of them against his skin. And in Mingyu’s absence, his thoughts began to slow and he caught onto one of the more intelligible ones: _am I really going to do this?_ Was he really going to sleep with Mingyu, let him have every piece of him like this? He wanted to, if the hot hardness resting against his stomach was anything to go by.

But was he ready?

“Jeonghan.”

He opened his eyes at Mingyu’s voice - and couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped his lips at the sight of him.

In the time he’d been gone Mingyu had managed to shed all of his clothes - save for the mask that still adorned half his face. And he was so beautiful. The candlelight flickered shadows against the curves and dips of his body, illuminating his tanned skin. He was all long, broad limbs and hard muscles yet there was still a softness to him. A softness Jeonghan couldn’t wait to get his hands on. And then his eyes slid lower, finding the thick erection between his legs, and his own face began to heat up. _Oh._ This was really happening. Mingyu would have all of him in a way that no one else had before. And he trusted Mingyu with that, with him. With his heart.

Jeonghan watched quietly as Mingyu set something down on the floor - it looked to be a small vial - and crawled the length of the bed, making his way up towards him. The way he moved was slow and deliberate. Like a predator stalking his prey. It sent shivers of pleasure up Jeonghan’s spine and he needed him close _now._ As soon as he hovered over Jeonghan, propping himself up with his hands on the mattress just above his shoulders, Jeonghan surged up and their mouths met in another blistering kiss. But it was severed as soon as Jeonghan felt something hard, hot, and heavy touch his thigh and he gasped against Mingyu’s lips.

“Need you,” he whispered in a high, breathless whine. His voice only broke more as Mingyu thrust his hips, his erection suddenly rubbing against Jeonghan’s in a heady blend of heat and desire that went straight to the depths of his stomach. “N-need you _now_ , Mingyu, please.”

“I have to prepare you first,” Mingyu murmured against the corner of his lips, “so I don’t hurt you.”

Jeonghan tried not to reach out for him as he pulled away from his body, revealing Jeonghan to the cold, damp air of his dwelling. He watched as Mingyu retrieved the vial he’d placed on the floor and came back with it. The liquid inside was mostly transparent, with a light yellow sheen to it. It looked like the fancy oils he’d seen Seungkwan use for his skin from time to time, the kind that cost more than Jeonghan would probably ever see again. The kind of oil Seungkwan had claimed to be _missing_ a few weeks ago.

“Is that,” Jeonghan began as Mingyu came back to him, “that’s not Boo Seungkwan’s oil, is it?”

A sharp, wicked grin crossed his lips as he slipped a hand between Jeonghan’s legs to spread them. Jeonghan let out a breathless whimper as pleasure sparked up his spine once more. “And what if it is?” Mingyu asked, his free hand sliding down Jeonghan’s inner thigh so slowly Jeonghan thought he might cry.

“I - I, um, it - “ He broke off in a mangled moan as Mingyu’s fingers brushed his hardness and _God_ he was so sensitive, so utterly wrecked and Mingyu had yet to really touch him. What would it be like when he did? When he was inside him?

“You need to relax for me, angel,” Mingyu said as he uncorked the vial and slowly poured some of the oil onto his fingers. “It’ll hurt if you’re not relaxed and I… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jeonghan tried his best to relax but the moment he felt one of Mingyu’s slick fingers against him he tensed, eyes clenching shut. He’d never explored himself there, had never even really touched himself at all since sharing a room with several other men sort of rendered that next to impossible. And he wanted this, he truly did, but he was scared.

“M-Mingyu,” he whimpered as his slick fingers continued to touch along his rim, soft strokes Jeonghan was certain were meant to be comforting. “I-I can’t - “

“Shh, angel, shh.” Mingyu leaned down to press kisses along Jeonghan’s stomach. “You’re doing so well for me, angel, so good. But we’re not done yet. Breathe, angel.”

He did as he was told, taking slow deep breaths as Mingyu pushed in, willing himself to calm down. The sensation was indeed foreign and only somewhat painful but Jeonghan still found himself tensing, eyes closed. Everything about this was quickly becoming overwhelming and he felt like he might fall apart if Mingyu kept it up.

“Look at me, angel.”

Jeonghan willed his eyes open, biting his lip as their gazes met. Mingyu was all dark, heady confidence as he looked down at him, muscles drawn taut. His finger was still inside Jeonghan and he… he sort of liked it. Liked the pressure of it, liked the feeling of being full - even if only from a single finger. “Mingyu, I - “

“You’re doing so well,” he said again. “But I need you to relax.” He moved his finger and Jeonghan whimpered at the sensation, at the way the pit of his stomach clenched. “You want me, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” he whispered. “I want you, Mingyu.”

He began withdrawing his finger only to push it back in and Jeonghan moaned as he tensed again - but only for a moment or two before he relaxed. “That’s it, angel,” Mingyu groaned. “So good for me.” And then his finger pressed in deeper, prodding gently at his inner walls, and Jeonghan felt like he would _definitely_ fall apart before Mingyu was even inside him.

Soon one finger became two and the burn from the stretch hurt so _good._ Mingyu kept murmuring praise into his skin, following words with kisses and bites and the way his right hand gripped his hip was hard enough that Jeonghan figured he’d have bruises. _Good._ He wanted them, welcomed them. Couldn’t wait to see them and revisit every kiss, every touch, every -

 _“Ah!_ M-Mingyu!” he gasped as the pleasure suddenly surged into something white-hot and scorching, as Mingyu’s fingers found something inside him he had no idea existed. Jeonghan gripped the black sheets beneath him, squirming under Mingyu’s right hand as he tried to hold him still. “Oh - oh _God,_ Mingyu please! Please, I - “

“What is it, angel?” he asked and his voice had seemingly dropped an octave, wrapping itself around a groan as he continued moving his fingers. Bone-deep pleasure sparked through his body at a steady pace as Mingyu rubbed against that spot deep inside him, and his cruel smirk was the last thing Jeonghan saw before he closed his eyes, throwing his head back with a broken moan.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t, angel,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Not long after that, Mingyu slid a third finger into him and Jeonghan felt as if he would combust. His stomach tightened with burning pleasure, and his body stiffened with every thrust of Mingyu’s fingers, with every stroke he gave that little spot. It was so much, _too_ much and one of his hands came up in an attempt to muffle his sounds. His moans were growing higher, breathier, and each one sounded so strange to his own ears that he wondered if Mingyu liked them. If he was being too loud.

“Jeonghan, don’t,” he whispered, and then Mingyu’s right hand was on his, tugging it away from his mouth. “Sing for me, angel. Let me hear you.”

His words sent a whole new wave of white-hot desire through his veins. He remembered when Mingyu whispered those words in a completely different context, how sensual they’d seemed even then. And as ridiculous as the notion was - that his broken moans sounded anything like his singing - Jeonghan couldn’t bring himself to speak, let alone tell Mingyu how silly he was. So he squeezed Mingyu’s hand in his and let himself cry out.

“Good, you’re so _good_ for me,” Mingyu whispered in response. 

And as always Jeonghan melted at his praise, babbling something along the lines of “need you _now,_ Mingyu, need you inside me.” Honestly at this point he was proud of himself for retaining such coherent thoughts, for being able to form some semblance of sentences.

Mingyu withdrew his fingers and Jeonghan whimpered at the loss. And then he heard the vial being uncorked again and opened his eyes to find Mingyu coating his erection in the oil. His own eyes were closed as he spread the liquid over himself and Jeonghan watched, mouth dry, wishing he could touch Mingyu, too. Wishing Mingyu would touch _him_ like that.

 _Next time,_ his mind promised and he couldn’t wait.

He spread his legs wider to accommodate Mingyu, wrapping them around his hips. With his right hand, Mingyu held Jeonghan’s waist and with his left he positioned himself where his fingers had been. Already Jeonghan could tell that Mingyu was thicker than three of his fingers had been, but he breathed in and out, slow and deep. He was ready, and he wanted this. He _ached_ for it. For Mingyu.

Their eyes met and Jeonghan wondered how he looked beneath Mingyu’s gaze. He tried to imagine it: his body marked with love bites and bruises, hair mussed and tangled, lips red and swollen. Was he as thrilling to Mingyu as he was to Jeonghan, kneeling on the bed like this, breath coming out in soft pants, a sheen of sweat painting his beautiful skin? Was he everything Mingyu wanted, had thought of? Was he enough?

The press of Mingyu against him was enough to break his reverie and he arched his back, breathing in to relax. “I-I’m ready,” he whispered, if that was what Mingyu was waiting for. “Please, Mingyu.”

“Jeonghan,” he murmured and their eyes met once more. “I love you.”

He’d spent years hinting at it, had said it indirectly tonight, but this was the first time he’d clearly uttered those three words and Jeonghan’s heart warmed. And he was about to say them too when Mingyu pushed inside him.

The stretch was indeed more than he’d been prepared for but just like Mingyu’s fingers it was a good stretch. It burned in all the right ways, scorching pleasure pulsing through his body as Mingyu slid deeper, his hips meeting the backs of Jeonghan’s thighs. And if he’d thought three fingers made him feel full… he moaned at the sensation, reaching out to touch Mingyu anywhere he could. Feeling like he would die if he didn’t.

“A-ah, you’re doing so well,” Mingyu groaned, looking like the definition of sin, pleasure clearly written across his handsome face, even with half of it covered, “taking me so well, angel.”

He stayed still for a time to allow Jeonghan to adjust and in those moments their eyes met. In those moments there was nothing else in the world but the two of them, and Jeonghan liked it that way. Truth be told he was uncertain what would be in store for them after tonight. Would their nightly meetings end up more like this? Would Jeonghan have to tell people he was sleeping with the so-called Phantom of the Opera?

_Would Mingyu want me again?_

Deeming him ready, Mingyu slowly pulled his hips back and Jeonghan would have protested at the almost-loss of him if the snap of his hips hadn’t been quick, rough. It stole Jeonghan’s breath away, the knot in the depths of his stomach tightening hotly, and the pain wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. With a deep breath Jeonghan reached out and placed one of his hands on Mingyu’s at his waist, his other hand coming out to curl once again in the black sheets.

“I love you, Mingyu,” he whispered.

“I know you do,” he said, voice a rough rasp. “My angel.”

With a bitten-back moan, Mingyu pulled out once more, to the tip, and thrust back in. He pushed against that same spot he’d found earlier with his fingers and Jeonghan gasped around the sharp jolt of desire that rocked his body. Finding himself unable to speak he simply grasped Mingyu’s hand and clung to the sheets as each snap of Mingyu’s hips brought him closer and closer to his peak. The heat gathering in the pit of his stomach began spreading to the rest of his body, fires sparking beneath his skin as his and Mingyu’s moans and gasps mixed in the cool air. He couldn’t take much more of this and he tried telling Mingyu this as he quickened his pace, no doubt close as well, but all that left Jeonghan’s lips were high, breathless whines.

In their pleasure, their gazes met once more and Jeonghan whimpered at the look in Mingyu’s dark eyes. The lust that pooled there, lust that looked as if it could consume him if he let it. He held Jeonghan’s hips tightly, almost painfully, as his own stuttered.

“A-angel,” he whispered. “You’re s-so close, aren’t you? Getting so tight around me…”

“Mingyu,” Jeonghan breathed as everything in his body seemed to tauten in the most sinfully delicious way; as the fire building steadily in his gut threatened to erupt. “Mingyu, I-I…”

“That’s it, angel.” He threw his head back, a guttural groan escaping his lips, squeezing his fingers around Jeonghan’s hip bones. “That’s it, just let go. Jeonghan…”

A few more thrusts of his hips and Jeonghan couldn’t hold on anymore. He orgasmed with a sharp cry, white-hot heat spreading throughout his entire body, gripping the sheets with white knuckles. Trembling, he squeezed his legs around Mingyu and felt something warm and slick inside him. Jeonghan realized that Mingyu’s hips had stilled against him and his head was still thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan.

And then they came apart, Jeonghan whining softly at the loss of him.

Jeonghan was so spent he felt like any movement was too much, so Mingyu unhooked his legs from around his waist and gently let them come to rest on the sheets - and God he was so sensitive that even those gentle touches made him shake.

“You did so well, Jeonghan,” Mingyu whispered, warmth in his eyes. “My angel.”

Jeonghan bit his lip, liking the pleasurable ache between his legs now. The way his thighs quivered. The way his heart was pounding so hard in his chest. “That was…”

“Incredible,” he finished for him, leaning down to capture Jeonghan’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss, the kind that threatened to consume him.

He clung to Mingyu, sliding his fingers into his thick, black hair. Brushing the mask that had, regrettably, stayed in place. But ultimately Jeonghan wasn’t so upset about that; they had only begun this, right? He assumed it wouldn’t be long before Mingyu revealed all of himself and Jeonghan couldn’t wait.

After cleaning up - Jeonghan turned red-cheeked when Mingyu settled back between his legs with the soft cloth, murmuring dirty words about how good he looked - Jeonghan snuggled against Mingyu’s side, loving his warmth and the strength of his body. He felt safe here, in his arms, and he smiled when Mingyu kissed his forehead.

“I love you,” Mingyu whispered.

Sleep claimed Jeonghan before he could respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so if you've seen the movie/musical i took out that damn lake. it might be ~aesthetic~ but it makes no sense lmao. also the smut was definitely an... artistic decision lmao. it'll make more sense down the road....
> 
> anyway hope you're enjoying! thank you for reading! <3


	5. four: in your empty eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna say sorry to mingyu stans reading this... gdi he has such a special place in my heart and mayhaps that's why i've done this to him.
> 
> oof.
> 
> tw: a /lot/ of abusive behaviors here, mostly just emotional/psychological. though there is one instance of physical abuse. from here on out, things are gonna spiral real quick.

**four: in your empty eyes**

Once the opera house closed for the night, all unwanted guests gone, Wonwoo took a walk. With Soonyoung and Seokmin not around to annoy him and the Vicomte waiting patiently outside for a friend that would never come, Wonwoo could finally be alone and he didn’t want to waste a single second, deciding to traipse around the darkened halls in an attempt to keep his mind busy. Since being alone meant hearing his thoughts and his thoughts kept straying down, down below the opera house, down where he knew Mingyu was alone.

Alone with Jeonghan.

As he walked through the halls of the opera house, Wonwoo remembered. Remembered sharing Mingyu’s bed weeks ago and the way the younger man had touched him. Like he was just a means to an end, a plaything. Remembered feeling discarded, cast aside, when moments later Mingyu announced he planned to bed Jeonghan after his debut.

 _“He’ll be mine then,”_ he’d whispered as Wonwoo dressed. As if he hadn’t just seduced Wonwoo into his bed with words of heat, passion. Love. Words of heat and passion and love Wonwoo knew he’d been practicing for Jeonghan. _“Finally.”_

God damn it all, Wonwoo should have known. Well, perhaps a part of him had _always_ known. The part of him that _hasn’t_ been in love with Mingyu for so long. The logical part of him, the one that screamed at him not to do it when Mingyu was whispering those fiery words. The one that tried, in vain, to keep himself protected, from being hurt. _Where was that years ago, then? When I needed it most?_

Wonwoo groaned to himself, willing the thoughts away.

 _See, maybe being alone_ is _a bad thing._

He continued his walk, a nightly routine to check on his opera house. And honestly he didn’t much care whose name was on the deed, who paid what number of francs, who lived in a fantasy detached from reality - this was Wonwoo’s opera house. He knew it like the back of his hand - which was why the noises coming from the girls’ room of the dancers’ dormitory were unnerving. Squeals and gasps emanating from an open door that should have been closed, a singular deep voice that was not native to the chorus line, and a few weak protests that could only be heard as Wonwoo walked closer.

One of the other stagehands, the one whose laziness Mingyu took advantage of that morning to drop the backdrop on Seungkwan, currently had a ballerina cornered against a wall, a noose in his hands? Speaking to the room about…

Wonwoo quickly latched onto the words of his story, one that had been passed around not long after Wonwoo himself had arrived at the theater. One about a certain Phantom.

Even after all the years he’s been here, Wonwoo’s still not certain who created this rumor. Or how much of it Mingyu has embraced, after hearing it. Especially since none of it is true. It details a man with a face so gruesome the first sensation he ever knew was that of a mask, to hide his deformities. It details a man with nothing but hatred in his heart, hatred for those who are “normal” – hatred enough to kill them. And this man, this resentful phantom, does so by asphyxiation.

With a noose.

(That part is true, Wonwoo must admit. He’s seen it for himself, long ago. But the rest of the story…)

 _“Keep your hand at the level of your eyes,”_ they say at the end of the tale, as advice. In warning.

It’s always made Mingyu laugh.

So this stagehand was scaring the dancers. Playing. Making an ass of himself to impress a bunch of women that ordinarily wouldn’t give him the time of day. And from his vantage point in the open doorway, Wonwoo saw Chan move from his spot against another wall, voice placating as he moved towards the stagehand.

“That’s enough!” Wonwoo snapped, deciding he ought to step in.

Immediately all eyes turned to him. Chan’s shoulders relaxed, and the stagehand moved away from the young dancers. Silence settled over the room and Wonwoo huffed as he took a few steps in.

“Have you lost your mind, Taewoo?” he asked of the stagehand. “You know better than to speak of such things.”

The young man scoffed. “It’s just a tale, Jeon. None of it’s true.”

“Isn’t it?” Wonwoo closed the distance between them and pulled the makeshift noose from Taewoo’s hands. Alcohol burned his breath and Wonwoo sighed. “If I catch you up here again, under _any_ circumstances, I won’t hesitate to remove you from the opera house. Understood?”

The man nodded, though a sour look crossed his face.

“Good. Now leave.”

He did as he was told and Wonwoo resisted the urge to rub at the building ache above his brow. Instead he checked on the young women, some of them trembling, some of them braver than others, and made sure they were all right before turning to leave. And he felt Chan’s eyes on him. At least his little brother had the sense to wait to address him until they were both out of the room, door closed.

“Wonwoo - “

“What were you doing in the girls’ dormitory, Channie?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

“I heard Taewoo and it sounded like the girls were scared so I-I went in to see if everything was okay.”

Exactly what Wonwoo expected from his sweet, kind brother. With a heavy sigh he reached out and ruffled the kid’s hair, smiling when Chan preened under the attention. “Thank you. I can always count on you to keep some semblance of order around this place, hm?”

Chan grinned, showing off his gums, and then it softened. “Jeonghan would have made him stop but I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t come back to the dorms yet.” Wide brown eyes searching Wonwoo’s face, he asked, “Do you know where he is?”

 _It’s like he knows._ “I figure he’s out with the Vicomte. Seungcheol seemed quite taken with him tonight,” the lie rolled right off his tongue and he hated it.

“He’s not! I found Seungcheol outside, in the cold, waiting for him, maybe half an hour ago.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “And what were you doing outside?”

“Uh…” His face tinged red as an embarrassed smile touched his lips. “Looking for Jeonghan.”

Wonwoo sighed and drew his younger brother in for a hug. Immediately Chan’s arms wrapped around his waist. “Don’t worry about him, Channie. I’m sure he’s all right. Has he ever given you reason to worry before?”

“Yes.” He pulled back to look at Wonwoo and the concern was obvious in his brown eyes, contorting his features. “Every night when he sneaks out to see his tutor.” And then his young face turned even redder. “Um, I mean - “

“I already know about that, Channie.”

“You do?”

 _I know more than you think._ “Of course. I’m fifteen years older than you, kid. I’m not as dumb as you think.” Chan opened his mouth to protest but Wonwoo gently shushed him. “Sleep, Channie. Jeonghan will return tomorrow, so please don’t worry.”

As he turned to go, he was stopped by Chan’s hand on his arm.

“Wonnie?” he asked quietly. Scared. “I’m worried that… that someone’s hurting him.” His voice dropped to a whisper and Wonwoo knew he was tugging at his fingers the way he did when he was anxious. “Maybe not physically but… well, he doesn’t sleep much anymore. Doesn’t eat a lot either. And he’s always staring at the shadows and-and acting detached. Like he’s worried about something. Or scared of something. I, um… found him in the cellars early this morning. Just by himself. No candles or anything. Just him singing in the darkness.”

“He was just singing, Channie.” The lie came out automatically. Like protecting, defending Mingyu is instinct for him now. After all these years doing it. “He probably didn’t want anyone to know he was singing Seungkwan’s part because he knew that it would upset him, so he was doing it in secret.” With another sigh he squeezed Chan’s shoulder. “Now please, sleep. I’ll make sure Jeonghan returns safely, okay?”

“Okay,” Chan whispered, not convinced, and Wonwoo can tell. “Thank you, Wonnie.”

Wonwoo pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before departing, hearing the door to the boys’ dormitory closing a few moments later. Apparently he needed to speak with Mingyu, because he couldn’t just whisk Jeonghan away for hours without anyone noticing. And now that he had made his debut it’d be even more difficult to do such things. But of course Mingyu didn’t care for logic or thinking things through. No, he only cared about his precious Jeonghan.

Wonwoo wasn’t bitter.

He made his way down to the outer perimeter of the opera house, shivering beneath his lack of a coat, and sure enough found the Vicomte and his carriage. Waiting even though everyone else was gone. Waiting even though the streets were dark. Waiting in the bone-chilling cold. Seungcheol tended to his horse, stroking its ivory mane, murmuring soft words Wonwoo couldn’t hear, but he turned when Wonwoo’s footsteps grew louder.

“Ah, Monsieur Jeon,” he said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. It seemed forced. Fake. “Is Jeonghan coming down?”

It was almost laughable how obviously eager Seungcheol was for Jeonghan’s company. Would have _been_ laughable if Wonwoo didn’t feel bad. “No, Vicomte. I’m afraid he isn’t feeling well tonight.”

Seungcheol stood quietly for a moment or two, eyes searching Wonwoo’s face, lips turned down in a frown, obviously not convinced either, and Wonwoo held back a groan. “I see. Does this have anything to do with that tutor of his?” Then, like an afterthought: “I should like to meet him. The tutor.”

 _You really wouldn’t._ “I’m sure it could be arranged, Vicomte, but for now the opera house is closed and I must ask you to leave, please.”

The younger man did not move a muscle, just continued to stare at Wonwoo. And if Wonwoo wasn’t so used to a particular set of dark, intense eyes he might have found Seungcheol’s gaze unnerving. But as he was indeed used to Mingyu’s brand of soul-scorching looks he merely returned the Vicomte’s gaze, unflinching, even as the cold spring air crept into his bones.

“Is there something you wish to discuss further, Vicomte, or may I return inside?”

“You’re hiding something,” Seungcheol said after a moment, “and I don’t like it.”

 _There it is._ Wonwoo took a step closer and Seungcheol set his jaw firmly. “You’re smart, Seungcheol,” he said quietly, “but I hope you’re smart enough to realize when to step back and leave well enough alone what you don’t understand.”

Something glinted in his eyes. “Is that a threat, monsieur?”

“No,” Wonwoo said, stepping back. “A warning. I trust you will heed it.” With that he turned back to the opera house.

Wonwoo knew the way down to Mingyu’s hideaway the best out of everything else. It was the most familiar to him, the place he went most often. But every time he headed there, dread settled in the pit of his stomach. And this time was no different. Except, instead of dread over how Mingyu would react to news Wonwoo was bringing or dread over the way his own body and his heart would betray him, this time Wonwoo dreaded seeing Jeonghan. So something selfish in him hoped the younger man was back in the dorms, in his bed, sound asleep. Preferably holding Chan close because Wonwoo knew his brother still had nightmares from time to time.

As it turned out, Wonwoo got one of his wishes.

Jeonghan was indeed sound asleep - in Mingyu’s bed.

He lay on his stomach, bare back partially covered by a blanket, blonde hair mussed out of its performance styling. Marks embedded in his soft, pallid, and otherwise unblemished skin. Marks Wonwoo pretended he had no idea where they had come from. He didn’t like imagining Mingyu kissing him, touching him, claiming him the way he’d fantasized about for so long…

“Wonwoo.”

He turned at the sound of his name, finding Mingyu hunched over his organ, shirt undone and hanging off his broad frame. Scratch marks littered his back and neck and Wonwoo looked away. He couldn’t stand it. “We need to talk, Mingyu.”

The other man was silent as he etched something onto the sheet music before him. “Then talk.”

A soft noise dragged Wonwoo’s attention away and he watched as Jeonghan shifted onto his side, eyes still closed, fists curled in Mingyu’s sheets. He remembered when Jeonghan had first come to this opera house, a decade ago, freshly orphaned and terrified of everything. Back then Wonwoo didn’t know Chan existed so Jeonghan was the closest thing he’d had to a brother. He remembered being a few years older than Jeonghan was now, holding the young boy in his arms when he’d woken up screaming from a nightmare. Whispering that everything would be okay. That Wonwoo would always protect him, that he’d never let anything hurt him.

Guilt settled in his heart now.

He’d broken his promise. Even if Jeonghan didn’t realize it.

“Well?”

Snapping out of his reverie, turning his attention back to Mingyu, he sighed. Right, he came down here for a reason. And as he looked into Mingyu’s deep, dark gaze, catching a glimpse of his bare chest from the way he turned to look at him, Wonwoo found himself quickly forgetting said reason. He wondered if _it_ had been everything Mingyu had wanted. He wondered if Jeonghan had lived up to his unearthly expectations, or if he’d come crashing down into harsh reality.

Judging by the way Mingyu’s eyes strayed to the young man in his bed, the way they darkened with something deep and wicked… well, Wonwoo had his answer. And the urge to leave with Jeonghan, to take him as far away from Mingyu as he could was stronger than ever. But as their eyes met Wonwoo knew he could never. He was under Mingyu’s spell as much as Jeonghan was. No matter how much he hated it.

“Seems as if you’ve got your wish,” he said softly.

Mingyu glanced at Jeonghan yet again and then back at Wonwoo. “Not quite. He still resists.”

 _In what way?_ he wanted to ask, seeing as how he was currently sleeping naked in Mingyu’s bed. But Wonwoo kept silent, not wanting to unintentionally anger Mingyu. He stepped close and sat on the bench beside him. His eyes drifted to the sheet music spread out haphazardly before him, lyrics about passion. Love. Sex. _Obsession._

“You need to return him, Mingyu,” he said softly, forcing his eyes away from the lyrics and the window they gave into Mingyu’s soul, his dark mind. “People are already starting to ask questions.”

“So? He’s _mine.”_

 _Is this how we’re playing it?_ “Even so, he can’t just disappear without people asking questions. The Vicomte most of all.”

The words came out before he could stop them and Mingyu’s hand stilled where it wrote on a piece of parchment. Like a reflex, dread once again filled Wonwoo’s being and he turned away, waiting for Mingyu’s anger to strike. But when it did - it wasn’t directed at him.

 _“The Vicomte,”_ he sneered. “I’ve heard enough about the damned Vicomte.”

 _It’s been a day,_ but Wonwoo wondered if Mingyu had also seen the way he’d looked at Jeonghan during the performance. He wondered if Jeonghan had ever talked about his old friend in their moments together. He wondered if Mingyu felt _threatened_ by him. If Jeonghan “resisted” because of Seungcheol. Hm. Now Wonwoo almost wished the young Vicomte _wouldn’t_ heed his warning, if only to spite Mingyu. To teach him that human beings can’t just be _claimed._ That people can’t be hurt and manipulated and played with the way Mingyu did.

 _Almost_ wanted Seungcheol to fight, Wonwoo decided. Because he knew that Mingyu would never give Jeonghan up if he still breathed. That he would do anything to retain the hold he had on him.

That Mingyu was not above murder to protect what he thought he deserved.

“Please, just - let him return,” Wonwoo tried once more. “Especially if he’s taking Seungkwan’s part again tomorrow night.”

“He is,” Mingyu responded automatically. “I’ve made sure of it.”

“Made - made sure of it,” Wonwoo mumbled as his brain tried to process that. And while he wondered what an obituary for Boo Seungkwan would say, Mingyu chuckled darkly.

“No, not like that. Not yet, anyway.”

 _Not yet._ Wonwoo shivered.

Rustling beneath sheet music, Mingyu produced a few familiar envelopes, sealed with red skulls, and set them in Wonwoo’s lap. “One for both of those insipid new owners, one for Boo Seungkwan, and one for that damned Vicomte. Well," he said with a smirk. "The Vicomte already has his. I imagine he'll find it soon enough. In any case, each of them needs to be reminded of their place in my opera house. And this will be the last time I ask nicely.”

“Do you ever ask nicely?” Wonwoo muttered, touching the envelopes gingerly, as if they were laced with poison. “You’re not - you won’t hurt them, right?”

Mingyu met his gaze with a devilish look and it sent fear straight into the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach. “I won’t. Unless they continue to refuse to listen to me. In which case, I won’t have a choice.”

 _You_ always _have a choice!_ he wanted to scream. _You don’t have to act this way. They don’t deserve it. Jeonghan doesn’t deserve it._ But he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t force his mind to form the words. Out of fear, out of the disgustingly corrupt love he held for Mingyu, he stayed silent.

He knew it was wrong.

Another soft noise from the direction of the bed sidetracked Wonwoo again and he glanced over to find Jeonghan shifting once more. No doubt he would be waking soon and Wonwoo had no intention of being down here when he did. So he stood up from the bench and moved toward the exit. Mingyu said nothing as he did so, his eyes on Jeonghan as he stirred in the bed.

Wonwoo should have known.

Everything _ached._ But it was a nice ache, Jeonghan decided. An ache that reminded him of what had happened last night. A smile touched his lips as he stretched in the bed, eyes closed still. All he could think about was Mingyu. Mingyu touching him the way he had, kissing him breathless, red, swollen lips. Mingyu above him, all around him. Inside him. With a sigh he reached out, frowning when he felt cool, empty sheets.

“Mingyu?” he asked quietly, still not opening his eyes for fear of effectively ruining what he was almost convinced he’d dreamed.

There came the soft sound of footsteps, ground crunching beneath boots, and then the mattress dipped under someone’s weight. A warm, familiar hand touched his cheek and Jeonghan moaned softly at the contact, stretching again, trying to shake the ache from his bones. “I’m here, angel,” Mingyu whispered near his ear. And then he pressed his lips against Jeonghan’s neck.

A soft stab of pleasure shot through Jeonghan’s body, warm and deep, and he reached blindly for Mingyu. “I-I didn’t dream last night, did I?”

“No,” Mingyu breathed against his neck. And then he shifted on top of Jeonghan, lips leaving his skin; Jeonghan wanted to whine at the loss of contact. “Look at me, Jeonghan.”

He opened his eyes and bit his lip at what he saw: Mingyu in nothing but his mask and black trousers, leaning over Jeonghan’s body like he had last night, lust deep and dark in his eyes. Jeonghan reached up and drew Mingyu down to him, mouths meeting in a rough kiss. Mingyu’s tongue curled against his and when their bodies touched, Jeonghan moaned into his mouth. Within minutes Mingyu was kissing down his chest, biting possessively at the marks he’d left last night. And Jeonghan felt as if he couldn't breathe. Just as it'd been last night, it was all too much. Mingyu knew exactly where to touch him, how to make him moan and shiver. And every so often he'd look up and meet Jeonghan's eyes in a haze of lust.

"You're so beautiful like this, angel," he whispered. "Breathless and wanting." His hand came up to stroke at a bite mark on his neck, smirking, and a shiver slid down Jeonghan’s spine at the touch. "Covered in bruises and marks. You're mine, aren't you?"

He'd asked that of Jeonghan so much in the past few hours and each time Jeonghan gave him the same response: a hushed, breathy "yes, I'm yours". This time was no different and Mingyu responded with a noise between a groan and a growl, deeply possessive, leaning down to kiss his neck once more.

Jeonghan reached out and blindly ran his fingers down Mingyu's face - well, the mask, actually. It was cold beneath his fingertips and he wished Mingyu would remove it. What could be under there; what could possibly be frightening enough to make Jeonghan not want him anymore? Curiosity itched at his skin, and he knew he could just take it off himself. Curl his fingers around the edge and lift. He'd shared everything with Mingyu last night, had given him his mind, his soul, his body - only to have Mingyu still hiding himself from him. Jeonghan wouldn't run from him, wouldn't cower in fear. He was, as he'd whispered time and time again, Mingyu's. With all that that entailed.

As Mingyu continued to kiss his skin, Jeonghan reached slow, careful fingers out along the edges of the mask. He whispered Mingyu's name, murmured something about how good his mouth felt to distract him - and then he pulled, lifting the mask from his face. There was maybe a moment between the mask coming off in his hands and Mingyu drawing back, but it was enough time that Jeonghan saw.

The skin there was raised and vaguely discolored. Scarred beyond belief. Like… like someone had set fire to him.

But it was nothing like the stories; nothing like the image of this phantom that Jeonghan had carried with him for years.

It was, in his eyes, nothing to hide.

Mingyu scrambled from the bed, one hand clutching the marred side of his face, and he whirled on Jeonghan with anger, black and smoldering, in his eyes. His other hand came up and Jeonghan barely had time to react, to cower, before it came down across his face in a harsh, sharp slap.

Pain blossomed just below his eye, stinging along the skin, and Jeonghan recoiled. Cheek throbbing, he covered his face with his hands and tried to curl up as small as he could.

_He hit me._

_Hit me._

_“Jeonghan, I love you.”_

_Hit me._

"I-I'm sorry, Mingyu, please forgive me,” he babbled, trying so hard not to cry even though tears closed around his throat like steel fingers, stung behind his eyes. “I-I only wanted to see you. All of you. Please, I'm sorry.”

He laughed in response, a dark sound with no humor in it, and Jeonghan shivered in fear. "Did you see what you wanted? Did it live up to your expectations?" Mingyu asked in a cruel voice. It made Jeonghan’s stomach clench and he _hated_ that sound.

"Mingyu, please," he whispered around the lump in his throat, cheek throbbing still, "it wasn't - I - it's not… it's not as gruesome as you think, I... Please don't be angry with me, I'm sorry. _Please."_

"Not as…" He trailed off into another humorless chuckle - and then a strong hand seized Jeonghan's arm, no doubt hard enough to leave more bruises, and he was dragged from the bed, mask falling from his grasp.

He cried out in fear, in pain, eyes squeezed shut as he fought against the grip on his arm. Trying to placate Mingyu with mindless apologies, begging him for forgiveness, because he hated this side of him. Hated the terror that coursed through his body now, hated the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Mingyu tugged him into a standing position, one hand gripping his jaw harshly and the other arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Jeonghan felt every inch of his body pressed up against him from behind but instead of it being sensual, it only served to scare Jeonghan more: Mingyu was so broad, strong. Angry. And he knew Mingyu could hurt him easily if he wanted to.

"Not as gruesome as I think?" he said again, mockingly, and he squeezed Jeonghan's jaw harder. "Open your eyes, angel, and look at me."

"Mingyu please," he tried once more, refusing to open his eyes. "I'm sorry, I only - "

“Open your eyes,” Mingyu snarled near his ear.

Tears sprang to Jeonghan’s eyes, burning the back of his throat too, and he bit down on his bottom lip as hard as he could, trying to keep them back. How quickly things had changed, and that _terrified_ him. That Mingyu’s soft words and worshipping hands had turned harsh and cold in a matter of seconds. But he did as he was told, hoping it might lessen some of Mingyu’s anger, and found the both of them in front of a mirror, one of the many he kept down in his dark shelter. With both of Mingyu’s hands on him, his face was left uncovered and Jeonghan tried not to stare. But that proved difficult with the way Mingyu gripped his jaw.

“Look at me, angel,” he hissed, and Jeonghan couldn’t. Not because of the deformity on his face but because of the anger clouding his eyes. Gone were the lust and the passion his gaze had held moments ago. Gone were the soft touches, the way he adored Jeonghan's body. Now he towered behind him, dark and menacing, breathing heavily. Glaring. Jeonghan’s stomach twisted knowing _he_ was the cause of such an emotion. And then Mingyu laughed that morbid sound again and Jeonghan wanted to vomit. Wanted to crawl away and hide. “You can’t, can you? You wanted this, Jeonghan. You took off the mask, _you_ wanted to ‘see all of me’. Well here I am. Is it everything you wanted? Everything you thought it would be?”

 _No,_ he wanted to say. _It’s not that bad; not like the stories made you out to be._ But he couldn’t speak; he just closed his eyes again, unable to look anywhere without shame weighing him down. Not at Mingyu’s face, not at his own reflection, gripped in harsh, strong arms, skin blemished with bruises and marks. Bruises and marks given under better circumstances, when Mingyu’s love was kinder. _Reminders._

“ _This_ is why I was cast out, Jeonghan, why I hide down here,” he rasped. “Why I keep to the shadows.” Something changed in his voice, in his grasp, and Jeonghan couldn’t place it. Not until he felt Mingyu’s breath against his neck and he shivered as his stomach churned harder. _Don’t touch me,_ he tried; his mouth wouldn’t work. “But don’t fret, angel; fear can turn to love.” His lips brushed Jeonghan’s throat in sickening kisses that left him aching to run away.

And he couldn’t help it; the tears he’d been holding back finally began to fall and he sagged in Mingyu’s grasp, wishing he had kept his hands to himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered once more. And then, voice breaking, “Please let me go.”

A moment of silence passed and then Mingyu took away his hands. Jeonghan fell to the ground in a heap of tears, body trembling despite the deep breaths he took to try and calm himself down. And he cowered. He didn’t want to see Mingyu staring at him the way he had. Didn’t want his hands on him again. The thought alone sent a stab of fear through his body and he curled in on himself, as if that would hide him from Mingyu’s poisonous gaze.

Perhaps a few minutes later, a muted _whumpf_ tore him from his reverie and he peaked out from beneath his hair to find his clothes laying in a pile beside him - and Mingyu fully dressed, mask in place, hair smoothed back. He wore a grim look, and it did nothing to calm Jeonghan’s nerves.

“Get dressed,” Mingyu said quietly. “We must return. I imagine you’ve been missed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah hahahahaha i'm so sorry


	6. five: dreams that torture me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want some fun pls listen to/watch "prima donna" from any production of the musical/movie and think of booseoksoon it literally makes my entire day when i do it.

**five: dreams that torture me**

Soonyoung did not sleep a wink last night. His dreams were plagued by nightmares; by backdrops falling on tenors and ghostly figures creeping around the shadows, demanding outrageous salaries. And then he woke up and remembered that that was his reality.

Getting out of bed had never been harder.

He’d woken up before Seokmin and left quietly, taking extra-careful steps outside of the other’s bedroom door and headed to the opera house just after dawn on a few hours of sleep. There was probably work he could catch up on, _something_ to get his thoughts off of his dreams. At least, that was what he counted on. There was just so much on his mind, so much he needed to process and sift through. So much that had happened in twenty-four hours.

_Well at least it’s more exciting than the scrap metal business._

Was that really a good thing?

Shivering in his coat once more, Soonyoung finally took a look at the newspaper he’d grabbed before leaving the house. He found it on the doorstep and decided that he probably ought to keep himself up to date with current events in Paris. Or at the very least read about the whirlwind that was last night’s performance. With a sigh he flipped through the paper, searching for such a review. He figured that, after what he’d heard from spectators, the newspaper would only have praising words.

Well, said words were there. Alongside others. Worrying words, really. Words that left Soonyoung’s mind scrambling for purchase even more than it already had been. He couldn’t _focus_ and this article hardly helped. Christ. He’d known about Jeonghan disappearing last night - his little friend, Wonwoo’s younger brother, had come to him asking if he knew where Jeonghan was - but Soonyoung had simply figured he’d run off with the Vicomte.

According to this article, it was -

_“ - Foul play?!”_

Soonyoung sighed heavily and looked up from his spot at his desk, perched over an assortment of papers and envelopes, to where Seokmin read the article out loud. He’d arrived maybe ten minutes ago and Soonyoung had shoved the newspaper into his hands. And the younger man shared the same look of utter disbelief that Soonyoung imagined he’d had, as well. “I know,” he groaned. “I mean, really. First Seungkwan refusing to even sing, and then Jeonghan disappearing?”

Seokmin sighed as well and collapsed in his own chair, running a hand through his dark hair. “Are we certain he wasn’t just whisked away by the Vicomte?”

“Not as far as I know. I already talked to some of the stagehands and dancers, and Lee Chan said that Seungcheol was still waiting for Jeonghan, after you and I had already left. And then Wonwoo said that he’d told the Vicomte to head home after a time. That Jeonghan still wasn’t with him.”

Seokmin groaned. “Honestly, Soon - what did we get ourselves into?”

“Oh so now you realize that this might have been a bad idea?”

“Well, not a bad idea per se,” he said. “Just… perhaps things aren’t going as well as we’d hoped.”

Soonyoung sighed once more and began sifting through the papers on his desk, looking for something else to focus on. Yes, last night had been a certifiable success (and they’d made more money than Soonyoung thought) but if Yoon Jeonghan didn’t turn up by that night’s show or if Boo Seungkwan still refused to sing… well, that was that. They were done for. He wondered what the newspapers would say, then; he wondered what would be said about them back home in Marseille, if -

Buried beneath a small pile of papers rested two identical envelopes. No return addresses, just _Monsieur Kwon_ and _Monsieur Lee_ scribbled on the envelopes, respectively, in elegant cursive. “What are these?” Soonyoung murmured to himself as he pulled them out.

“What are what?” Seokmin asked, craning his neck to look.

“These - notes.” Soonyoung stood up, letter-opener in hand, letters in the other, and crossed the office to Seokmin’s desk. “I’ve no idea who they’re from but here. This one is for you.”

Seokmin took his with a frown and together they opened them. In each the only object was a single piece of parchment, painted with the same neat script. No dates, still no return address. While Soonyoung scowled at the mysterious piece of paper, Seokmin read his aloud.

 _“Dear Lee, what a delightful performance last night! Jeonghan was simply perfect, and you would do well to have him sing again tonight, too. Indeed, I don’t think anyone quite noticed Seungkwan’s absence, wouldn’t you agree?”_ He raised a brow as he turned the note over, finding it empty, and then he looked at Soonyoung. “Do we know anyone with the initials O.G.?”

“I don’t think so,” Soonyoung murmured as he looked at his own, already dreading the contents. _“Dear Kwon,”_ he read, _“I feel I must remind you - my salary is overdue. I hope I do not have to explain why that is unacceptable, and I know you will do your best to honor my orders.”_

Despite popular belief, Soonyoung wasn’t a fool. He could read between the lines and the arrogance on the author’s part was clear. So whoever this was - _O.G.,_ apparently, whoever that was - they thought rather highly of themselves. Highly enough to make ridiculous demands and - 

“Opera Ghost,” he murmured, mostly to himself at first. But then Seokmin gasped and their eyes met. “It’s that - that damned phantom. Who does he think he is, making these demands, sending us these notes?”

“Is… is he real?” Seokmin asked quietly, fear tightening his voice, and Soonyoung groaned.

“I don’t think he’s an actual ghost, Seok. I don’t think they can pick up pens and write passive-aggressive notes.”

“Still.” He bit his lip, glancing between his own note and Soonyoung’s. “Uh, you - you should probably figure out how to get him his salar - “

Just the thought made Soonyoung’s head hurt. “No! I’m not going to capitulate myself to some deranged man who thinks he can wreak havoc on _our_ opera house. We gave up everything for this, Seokminnie. Gave up our lives to come and play in a theater, and I’m _not_ letting some - some _phantom_ ruin it. And neither are you.”

His friend nodded solemnly, though Soonyoung had spent enough time with him to know that he wasn’t convinced. That was the least of his worries, however, as he stared at the note in his hands. What were they do to about this? Hell, was there anything they _could_ do? Was this a matter for the police? Was -

Stomping footsteps brought him out of his reverie and Soonyoung looked to the door the moment it whipped open. There stood Choi Seungcheol, and if he’d seemed the perfect picture of put-togetheredness last night, now he looked the very definition of chaos. Hair messed in stray curls, clothes disheveled with a few buttons just… not buttoned. He was breathing heavily and - clutching a very familiar envelope in his hands.

_Great._

“Where is he?” Seungcheol asked, glancing between the other two with wide eyes. “Jeonghan, where is he?”

Soonyoung, having decided that eight in the morning really was too early to deal with some of this, snorted. “We’ve been asking that same question all morning, Vicomte. You’re welcome to sit here and figure it out with us.”

Seokmin shot him a look before turning his attention back to Seungcheol. “What is it, Vicomte? What’s wrong?”

“This.” He held up the envelope. “I found this in my carriage last night and it’s…” Trailing off, his eyes darkened, gaze sharpening. “Wait. Is that stagehand around? Jeon?”

“He is,” Soonyoung responded. “Getting the stage ready for tonight’s performance already. Why?”

He watched the Vicomte’s expression change once again and wondered if he too distrusted Jeon Wonwoo. The few words the two had exchanged last night had been tense enough and if Wonwoo was threatening him now…? Wait, did that mean that their letters were from him too?

_God, why doesn’t any of this make sense?_

“Here,” Seungcheol said quietly, taking out his letter and placing it in Seokmin’s outstretched hand. 

Glancing over the note, Seokmin’s eyed widened. _“Dearest Vicomte,”_ he read aloud after a moment, _“your interest in our darling Jeonghan is appreciated but unnecessary. He is safe with his Angel of Music; make no attempt to see him again.”_ With a glance at Soonyoung, he said, “Signed by ‘opera ghost’ as well.”

 _He must be with this ‘Angel of Music’, then,_ Soonyoung thought, _but who could that be? That tutor of his? If so, why is he sending Seungcheol threatening messages?_

Something began throbbing, just above his eyebrow.

“Well,” he said after a moment of silence, “it certainly fits the same vaguely threatening tone of the ones we received this morning.”

Seokmin looked back up at the Vicomte, returning the note with the slightest of tremors in his hand. “Who is the Angel of Music?” he whispered. “Is it - could it be the Phantom?”

“Phantom?” Seungcheol parroted with furrowed brows. “You said opera ghost too - is that what O.G. stands for then?” Leaning against the wall, shoulders relaxing some, he sighed. “I’d heard the opera was haunted but this? It has to be more than a simple specter. Especially if he’s threatening people with - with letters...”

Soonyoung sighed. “I’m sure it’s just a man thinking he can have a bit of fun with us. Especially since he’s asking for money. And I suppose the former owner entertained these antics, but we won’t. Right, Seokmin?”

“Uh, right.”

Seungcheol was apparently lost in thought, eyes focused on a rather uninteresting spot on the floor as his lips moved soundlessly. And then his head snapped up abruptly, causing Seokmin to jump just a bit in his chair. “He’s the reason Seungkwan quit the show yesterday, right? The Phantom?”

“According to some of the workers and dancers, yes,” Soonyoung said. “Though I’m still not convinced. Backdrops can fall on their own, right?”

Seokmin threw him a dismissive look.

“And you believe this Phantom is a man, yes? Hmm.” Wheels turned in the Vicomte’s head but Soonyoung couldn’t quite tell where his thoughts were headed. He wished he could, though. Might help shine some light on their situation. And then, after a moment, Seungcheol met Soonyoung’s gaze. “I need to speak with Monsieur Jeon. Right away.”

Soonyoung was about to respond when more footsteps thundered their way to the office, accompanied by shouts of “where is he?”

 _No more,_ he begged any deities that were listening, head pounding, _please._

But alas, none of them listened.

In burst Boo Seungkwan, who by all accounts should’ve been a sight for sore eyes, but he too waved a letter in his hands and Soonyoung wanted to go home. To Marseille.

“Aha!” Seungkwan cried when he jostled past Seungcheol, eyes on the Vicomte. “You! I have your letter!”

Seungcheol took a step back at the fury in the tenor’s voice, hands immediately coming up in a placating fashion. He looked just as confused as Soonyoung felt. “What letter? I didn’t - “

“This one!” He waved the small, white envelope in his hand, face drawn in a sneer. “I _know_ you sent it, you _had_ to!”

Huffing a sigh, Seungcheol reached out and plucked the note from Seungkwan’s hand, ignoring his indignant protests. And with four people crammed into the small office, Soonyoung’s chest began to tighten. Or perhaps it was from the stress of these letters. Either way, once again his morning was not progressing the way he intended. And it was driving him slowly insane.

 _“Your days at my opera house are numbered,”_ Seungcheol read, and immediately Soonyoung knew who wrote this particular letter. It sent a shiver down his spine. _“Yoon Jeonghan will again sing for you tonight and if you try to take his place, you will not enjoy the consequences.”_ He looked back up, met Soonyoung’s eyes, and frowned. “Where is Monsieur Jeon? I need to speak with him. Right now.”

_He doesn’t think Wonwoo is behind all this, does he?_

Seungkwan scoffed with a roll of his eyes. “What do you need Wonwoo for? If you didn’t send the damned letter - “

“I have no idea why you think I _would,”_ Seungcheol fired back and though Soonyoung didn’t know the man very well, he could tell he was stressed. His shoulders were tight, voice tense. “I understand yesterday was rough for you, monsieur, to say the least, and I apologize for that, but if you really think I could write something like th - “

“You’re clearly sleeping with Yoon Jeonghan!”

The accusation made Seungcheol stutter, eyes blowing wide again (and it made Seokmin blush). “How - wh - I’m - how do you figure?”

“It’s all the dancers and stagehands can talk about! The way you looked at him last night, how you _begged_ these two to bring you to the dressing room!” A derisive scoff left the young man’s lips. “Hansol said Jeonghan left with you and - “

“He didn’t,” Seungcheol said quietly, perhaps bitterly, still gripping the letter in his hands. “I waited for hours but he never showed. In fact, we don’t actually know where he is at the moment. So no, I’m not sleeping with him. And even if I were, I’d be more professional than what you’re insinuating. I promise, Monsieur.”

For a moment, Boo Seungkwan looked at him silently, no doubt processing everything. Head aching, Soonyoung wasn’t sure if he himself had processed it all yet, and he sighed. “You don’t know where he is?” Seungkwan asked.

“No,” the Vicomte responded. “If you’ve heard anything, please share.”

“I-I haven’t.” Then he sighed. “If you didn’t send the letter, who did?”

In that moment Seokmin stood up and gently edged between Seungkwan and the Vicomte. Always the peacemaker. “I’m sure if we just take a few moments and try and figure this out,” he said softly, looking between both men, “we’ll get to the bottom of this. But for now - “

“Monsieur Kwon? Monsieur Lee?”

The new voice was as familiar as it was suspicious and Soonyoung bit back a sigh as Jeon Wonwoo appeared in the doorway, accompanied by his younger brother. How on Earth six people could fit in this office was a miracle, and Soonyoung watched as the newcomers glanced between the others, reading the tension in the room.

“Mister Yoon has returned,” Wonwoo said quietly, after a moment.

Immediately Seungcheol’s gaze snapped to his and he said, “I need to see him,” at the same time Seokmin asked if the young man was doing well.

Wonwoo looked between the two and then sighed. “He’s alone in the dancers’ dorms, at my request. I don’t think he should see anyone right now.”

“He needs rest,” Chan chipped in quietly, sounding as young as he looked.

Perhaps Seungcheol’s wariness was rubbing off on him but he didn’t like the way those words sounded. They left a strange feeling. “And why is that, Monsieur Jeon?”

“Will he sing tonight?” Seungkwan asked.

From his spot at his brother’s side, Chan scoffed. His young face was drawn taut with worry and Soonyoung hoped Jeonghan was all right. “Is that all you care about, Seungkwan? He’s up there right now crying his eyes out - has been since he - “

“He’s _what?”_ Seungcheol stepped towards the exit, towards Wonwoo. “I need to see him. Right now.”

_Crying?_

Soonyoung glanced at Seokmin, who returned the gaze with a soft sigh.

And Wonwoo merely fixed the Vicomte with a coolly detached look. “He’s resting, Vicomte. Besides,” he said quietly, reaching into his pocket, “I have something the lot of you might be more interested in.”

He produced a -

“Goddamn it,” Soonyoung hissed, eyeing the familiar ivory envelope. “Not another one. You know, if we never hear from this opera ghost again, it won’t be soon enough.”

An amused smirk touched the younger man’s lips and he opened the note. But instead of reading it aloud, word for word, he merely summarized with a quiet, “He wishes for Jeonghan to sing tonight - “ silenced Seungkwan’s protest with a raised index finger - “and for Jeonghan to be cast in the lead role in the upcoming production of _Il Muto,_ in the role of the count. Seungkwan,” he said, eyes falling on the man with some semblance of pity there, “to play the role of page boy. In other words, silent. He plans to watch the performance from his usual Box Five, which will be kept empty for him.”

The Vicomte’s eyes narrowed, lips pursing in thought.

“And if these demands are ignored,” Wonwoo continued, “the consequences will be harsh. Harsher than you could ever imagine, it says.”

He fell silent then, and...

 _“What?!”_ Seungkwan demanded, stepping towards Wonwoo as well and the look on his face was almost comical - wide eyes, lips drawn up into a pout. Would have been funny if Soonyoung didn’t actually feel bad for him. “The _silent_ role? The only reason the house was full last night was because they thought _I_ would be singing! What an insult, I can’t belie - _wait.”_ He took a breath. “I know who sent this.” Face hardening, pointing accusingly, he turned to Seungcheol once more. “The Vicomte; his lover! It’s a ploy to help Jeonghan, isn’t it?”

 _Please God,_ Soonyoung thought, _just strike me down right now._

Morning two of owning an opera house and he’d already had more headaches than he’d ever in Marseille.

The Vicomte ran a hand down his face and inhaled deeply. _Bless his patience._ “I already told you that there is nothing going on between him and I - “

“You could be _lying!”_

“Indeed,” he responded drily. And then, pushing past Wonwoo, “I’m done.”

The office was one less person and yet Soonyoung couldn’t help thinking that the most level-headed of them was gone. Seokmin believed too much in ghosts. Wonwoo believed too much in this Phantom. Seungkwan was far too quick to jump to conclusions. Chan… well, Chan was young. Scared for his friend. And Soonyoung just wanted to go back to bed. For a year. At least.

Rubbing his aching head, he realized Seungkwan was still ranting about Jeonghan and the role and _it’s just not fair_ and _I’ve been lead tenor for five seasons now, you can’t treat me like this_ with blaming fingers in Soonyoung’s face and he just wanted it to stop.

“Monsieur Boo,” he snapped.

Seungkwan stopped mid-sentence, frowning.

“Thank you. Now, Seokmin and I won’t take any orders from this deranged man. Which means that you are still our star.”

The young man’s face softened, shifting into something more passive.

_Am I doing this right?”_

“Jeonghan will play the part of the page boy,” Soonyoung continued, mostly for emphasis. “And you will be playing the lead. As well as singing tonight.”

“I would advise against that, monsieur,” Wonwoo said. “The Phantom - “

 _Again with the damned phantom._ “To be honest, Monsieur Jeon, I don’t really care what this ‘phantom’ wants. This is not his opera house. Seokmin and I are managers and what we say goes. Feel free to tell him so, since apparently you know him so well.”

Wonwoo looked at him with a gaze that could cut straight to Soonyoung’s soul if he’d let it. But he didn’t. He merely met Seungkwan’s eyes and with that, Wonwoo left, Chan close behind. And half of Soonyoung’s stress and headache went with them, thank God. But, watching Seungkwan sigh, there was still this to deal with.

“Wouldn’t you rather have your precious Yoon Jeonghan play the count?” he asked derisively, like they hadn’t already discussed this. But Soonyoung knew what was happening; he knew Seungkwan wanted him to grovel. So he swallowed his pride with a sigh and a smile.

“Of course not. We want _you_ as our lead, Seungkwan.”

“We do!” Seokmin chirped, some of the color returning to his face after the morning’s quarrels. “No one could ever replace you. You’re simply one in a million, and we need you.”

Not for the first time in his life, Soonyoung thanked god for Lee Seokmin. _What would I do without him?_

Seungkwan looked between the two for a quiet moment before raising an eyebrow. “Is that it? You call that groveling?” With a roll of his eyes he turned towards the doors. “Enjoy dealing with your little Phantom – he’s a headache and I’m – “

“Monsieur Boo,” Soonyoung murmured, a flare of hope, of relief surging through him when Seungkwan stopped. “You know we need you. Your public needs you. The company needs you. You are our star. Jeonghan was… was simply a substitution. But nothing compares to you or your lovely voice.”

The words tumbled from his mouth – at this point he would have said anything, agree to anything to get Seungkwan to come back. To take care of this particular stress point.

And Seungkwan must have known this, for when he turned back around he wore a dangerous, smug smirk that only heightened Soonyoung’s worries. “Is that right?”

“You know it is,” Soonyoung said quietly. “This company would be nothing without you. Please, Seungkwan.”

He glanced between the two of them for a silent moment, handsome features turned up in haughty amusement. “You’ll have to make it up to me, you know. I almost _died,_ and then to get such a threatening letter – it’s obvious that I’m in danger just being here…”

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” Seokmin said, making a promise Soonyoung wasn’t sure they could keep.

Seungkwan’s eyes sparkled. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Soonyoung confirmed, ignoring Seokmin’s pleading looks. But at least they were most likely getting Seungkwan back. At least things were beginning to look up.

He could only hope.

Finding his way through the curling, twisting backstage halls had been difficult enough last night, with Wonwoo and the managers at his side. Now that Seungcheol was alone he had no idea where to even _begin_ to look for Jeonghan, and he hated it. God, he could barely think. What had happened last night? And why was Jeonghan crying? And who the hell was this “opera ghost”, this phantom, who thought he could just send people threatening letters? Who thought he could just keep Jeonghan to himself, like some kind of object? Had he been the man sitting in Box Five last night, watching Jeonghan with - with that _look?_ It made Seungcheol _sick_ and damn it, he needed to find him now!

_God, what way did we go last night? Was it a right? Wait no -_

“Vicomte!”

He stopped at the soft voice and turned around to find Lee Chan rushing to his side. He was alone, though Seungcheol would not have been pleased to see that brother of his. “Chan? Is everything okay?”

The young man nodded. “I’m sorry about my brother. He’s just worried about Jeonghan too.”

 _Certainly has an odd way of showing it,_ he wanted to say, but decided it wouldn’t be fair to badmouth the boy’s older brother. “I need to see Jeonghan. Can you take me to him?”

“That’s actually what I came to do,” he said. “Han asked about you this morning. When we found him.”

Seungcheol fell into step beside the young man when he began walking. “Where exactly _did_ you find him?”

The hesitation on Chan’s part told Cheol that he had every right to be worried, and his heart clenched. “Uh well… Seonghwa and I were coming back to the dorms to grab something during a rehearsal break and-and Jeonghan was curled up on his bed, sobbing. When Hwa tried to touch him he-he pushed him away and asked for you. Um, I didn’t know where you were so I went to get Wonwoo instead because - well I thought he’d know what to do. Um…” He trailed off on a choked sound, like he was holding back tears, and Seungcheol immediately reached out and put an arm around his thin, trembling shoulders.

“He’s going to be all right, Chan. I promise.” But whether those words were solely for Chan or to also console his own heart, Seungcheol wasn’t certain. “Let’s go to him, hm?”

Chan nodded and quietly they made their way through the opera house. Thankfully most everyone else was onstage, rehearsing still (Seungcheol asked about this and Chan gave him an incredulous look like “of course we still rehearse, even after the opening show”) so they only ran into a few people. As they walked, Seungcheol tried his best to cheer up the young man. He knew if he didn’t fill the silence with talking he’d get into his own head and he wanted to be comforting and present for Jeonghan. So he asked Chan about being a dancer - and received a bright, wide-eyed response that lasted till they reached the doors of the dancers’ dormitories.

There they both hesitated, Chan reaching out to open the door. “Han?” he asked quietly, poking his head inside. “I-I found the Vicomte.”

Seungcheol followed the young man inside - and stopped when he saw Jeonghan. He was slumped against the wall, legs tucked under him on the bed, twirling a single red rose between his fingers. And he looked _awful._ Bags under his eyes, soft bruises along his jaw in the shape of fingers, another thicker, sharper bruise on his cheek, more peeking out from underneath the neckline of his shirt. _Are those… bite marks?_ Immediately Seungcheol’s protective side stirred, the side of him that would hurt anyone that even looked at Jeonghan wrong, without hesitation, but he knew that wasn’t what Jeonghan needed right now. So he forced that down and instead took slow, careful steps towards his friend.

“Hannie?” he tried, softly.

Jeonghan looked up with red, swollen eyes and sniffled around a tired smile. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am, Hannie. I was so worried about you.” Glancing at the bed, he asked, “Can I sit with you?”

He patted the mattress and Seungcheol sat down, offering Chan a smile when the young man left them alone, the door closing behind him. Then Jeonghan rested his head on his shoulder and Cheol shifted to wrap an arm around him, taking care to be as gentle as possible. Jeonghan looked like he might break even under the softest of pressures. “Are you okay?” he whispered. “What happened last night?”

Long, thin fingers came up to play with the missed buttons on Seungcheol’s shirt, and he held the rose still in his other hand. “You forgot to button these this morning,” he whispered.

 _So that’s how we’re doing this._ Cheol leaned his head against Jeonghan’s, deciding that they didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to. “I got ready as soon as I woke up, to come see you. Guess I was too hurried.”

“I like it,” Jeonghan murmured. “It’s endearing.”

Seungcheol smiled but said nothing, instead reaching up to lace his fingers between Jeonghan’s. And they sat like that for a few minutes, just silently enjoying each other’s company. Cheol liked the way Jeonghan fit tucked against his body, even if he was thinner than he should’ve been, and he was so damned glad his parents had allowed him to become patron of this opera. That fate had brought him and Jeonghan together again.

“Ow.”

Frowning Seungcheol looked down to find a red spot blooming on Jeonghan’s thumb, rose abandoned on his lap. “Did you prick yourself on a thorn?” he asked, half-incredulously.

Jeonghan made a face at the wound. “Perhaps.”

“Hannie…” He sighed and gently pulled away from the warmth of his body to find something he could use to keep the blood back. _You’re just a mess,_ he wanted to say, but it sounded mean. Even if he’d said it jokingly.

“Cheol, what are you - come back. I’ll be fine.”

A discarded shirt on the floor would do the trick, at least for now, he decided as he bent over to scoop it up. He returned to Jeonghan on the bed and immediately reached for his hand, pressing his thumb against the shirt. “You should be more careful,” he said quietly, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze.

“Seungcheol, it’s just a cut. You’re worrying over nothing.”

He frowned, raising a brow to say _nothing?_ as his eyes slowly swept over Jeonghan’s appearance, and Jeonghan sighed. “Just let me worry,” Seungcheol said as he gently swiped the fabric over the wound, collecting the small droplets of blood that dribbled out. “Please?”

“Fine,” Jeonghan grumbled.

They settled into silence again and when the bleeding stopped Seungcheol tossed the shirt onto the floor and let Jeonghan settle back in his arms. Immediately his hand went up to stroke fingers through Jeonghan’s soft blonde locks, holding him tight.

“Cheollie?” Jeonghan asked after a time, head still on his shoulder. “Have you ever been in love?”

 _Yes._ He had been, with a certain blonde boy a few months younger than him. A certain blonde boy who’d gotten him in trouble every day of his life, but Cheol had never been able to say no to him. A certain blonde boy who would dance around his father’s parlor singing love songs in a strong vibrato, the most carefree smile on his face. A certain blonde boy who would sneak into his room at night, who would curl up in his arms and fit so perfectly that Seungcheol never wanted to let him go. _Have you ever been in love?_ That, Seungcheol decided, was a loaded question. He wasn’t certain how to respond. How Jeonghan would want him to respond. So he sighed and tried something. “Once. A long time ago.”

“Would you ever - I mean, would you… would you have ever hurt them? Physically?” His voice dropped to a whisper and something close to panic stole Seungcheol’s breath away. _The bruises…_

“Jeonghan, what’s this about? Are you all right?”

“Just - just answer the question. Please.”

“If I do, will you talk to me? Please?”

Jeonghan was silent for a few moments and then Cheol felt him nod against the crook of his neck.

_Good enough._

And God he didn’t even have to think about Jeonghan’s question. The answer was a firm, resounding _no._ He told Jeonghan as such. “You don’t hurt people you love, in any way. You don’t manipulate them; you don’t abuse them. If - if you love someone…” He looked down at the precious man in his arms, covered in bruises, huddling against his body just to feel safe, and his heart ached. “If you love someone, you cherish them. You hold them tight. You move the world and the heavens just to keep them safe. You’d take on the devil himself if it meant protecting them. But you never, ever hurt the ones you love. Not intentionally anyway. And if anyone tells you differently, there’s something wrong with them.” Squeezing Jeonghan’s hand he sighed. “Is someone hurting you, Hannie? Is that what these bruises are?” _Is it that ‘angel of music’? The Phantom?_

God, just the thought of such a man claiming to love Jeonghan made Cheol’s stomach turn.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I’m scared, Cheollie. I-I’m - I…”

As soon as Jeonghan’s breath began hitching again, Seungcheol pulled him even closer, shushing him gently. “It’s okay, Hannie, I’m here. You’re safe with me. We don’t have to talk about this.”

Jeonghan gripped his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric, and allowed Seungcheol to hold him tight. This time the tears did not last quite as long and when they subsided Jeonghan lifted his head. His sweet, handsome face was stained with tears and Cheol gently wiped them with his thumbs, careful to avoid the bruise on his cheek, offering a soft smile.

“Are you hungry?”

Jeonghan sniffled, the smallest of smiles touching his lips. “I could eat. Why?”

“Come to breakfast with me.” He reached out to stroke Jeonghan’s hair back, grinning when he leaned into Cheol’s touch. “There’s this amazing little cafe down the street with the best pastries.”

“Mm, that sounds perfect. But I have to rehearse…”

“They can do without you for a morning,” he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to Jeonghan’s forehead. God, he’d missed this. Missed _him._

“Okay,” he murmured. “Let’s go. Mm, but can I change first?”

“Of course. I’ll leave the room.”

As he headed back for the door, throwing a grin over his shoulder at Jeonghan, his heart squeezed in his chest. He hoped Jeonghan would be all right, that he’d talk to him about what happened soon, but for now Seungcheol was content to just be in his presence again.

“Go on,” Jeonghan said with a soft little giggle and Seungcheol wanted to memorize the sound. “I’ll be right out.”

“I’ll miss you.”

He laughed once more with a wave of his hand, and Seungcheol left, closing the door behind him. It amazed him that just a few minutes alone with him had been able to lift his spirits so - and Jeonghan’s too, he hoped. Of course, there was still much to worry about, much to ponder, but that could come later. For now all he wanted to think about was Jeonghan. Jeonghan and his sweet smile. How he could make him laugh again.

 _Have you ever been in love?_ Jeonghan had asked.

_Twice. Once, a long time ago and once… right now._

The moment Seungcheol left, door clicking shut behind him, the smile fell from Jeonghan’s face. As easily as it had appeared, it was gone and Jeonghan knew he needed to rise from the bed and change lest he be paralyzed by the thousands of thoughts in his mind, most of them dark and scared. He tried to focus on the brighter ones, the ones about Seungcheol, but it was so difficult to cling to them when they were overpowered by thoughts of - of _him._ Of Mingyu.

Mingyu’s hands on him, leaving bruises he couldn’t cover. Mingyu’s mouth on him, leaving marks he would end up hating the sight of. Mingyu’s breath against his ear, whispering promises he knew were too good to be true but he succumbed anyway.

_“I won’t hurt you, remember? It’s still me and you know me.”_

_“Jeonghan, I love you.”_

_“Don’t fret, angel; fear can turn to love.”_

As if it wanted to remind him, the bruise on his cheek throbbed again and he wondered if Yugyeom would miss it if some of his makeup went missing. Just enough to paint the blemishes on his face away. Enough to hide them. He made his way to the other side of the room and rummaged through the drawers, pulling Yugyeom’s powder out from under a pile of clothes. And while he was there he grabbed the nicest clothes any of them owned - a pair of black trousers and a white shirt with intricate lace details sewed along the neckline. Seonghwa had purchased the outfit last year or so on a whim, deciding that he wanted there to be _something_ nice in their drawers.

_Thank god for Park Seonghwa._

And since they were roughly the same height, weight, and build Jeonghan quickly changed into the clothes, making sure to avoid his reflection in the dusty mirror in the corner. He couldn’t stand the sight of himself right now, couldn’t stand the bruises on his skin. The irony wasn’t lost on him though - how he’d wanted the marks, how he’d begged Mingyu for them because he thought he’d want the reminder.

And now they made him want to vomit.

That, and he was afraid if he saw them, he might like the way they looked.

After changing he dusted some of Yugyeom’s powder onto his face, trying his best to cover up the worst of the bruises, and then he deemed himself ready. He hoped he looked good enough for Seungcheol.

As he opened the door, Cheol greeted him with the brightest, widest grin, showing off his gums, and Jeonghan’s heart melted.

“You look… wow,” he murmured. As if Jeonghan wasn’t covered in bruises. As if he was done up like he had been the night before. As if he was something more than who he was.

 _I don’t deserve him._ “I really don’t. I just changed and - “

“You always look great, Hannie. Handsome.” He put his arm out for Jeonghan to take, giving him that dazzling grin again. “Ready? I’ve got my horse waiting downstairs.”

_“You don’t hurt people you love, in any way.”_

_“When you love someone you cherish them.”_

Jeonghan placed his hand on Seungcheol’s bicep and smiled as that brought them closer. “Ready.”

Wonwoo had spent the majority of his life with Mingyu. First at the orphanage then at the opera house. He figured they’d known each other for - for about twenty-five years, give or take. Which was a considerable amount of time, given the fact that Wonwoo had celebrated his thirty-third birthday a few months ago. And in that considerable amount of time, he’d only ever seen Mingyu _this_ angry once: when he was nine and the other kids at the orphanage had destroyed the old, decrepit piano in the corner of the main room. They claimed it was an accident but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that that was a lie. And Mingyu _lost_ it. Screaming and crying and Wonwoo had had to hold him back, lest he quite literally murder the culprits.

That moment was a lot like this one, except now Mingyu was an adult nearing thirty, throwing a fit over another of his most prized possessions.

“Who does that damned Vicomte think he is?!” he cried, storming across his lair, looking for things to throw, to kick. “Jeonghan is _mine_ and I thought my note had made that perfectly clear!” He bent down and retrieved an empty candelabra. With an enraged shout he hurled it through the air and it landed on the ground a few feet from Wonwoo with a sharp _clang!_

Wonwoo didn’t even flinch.

“And then those two _fools_ continue to completely disregard my demands? Do they think I won’t follow through on my threats?”

Wonwoo figured he brought this on himself when he came down here to relay the news of the morning after leaving the office. He _knew_ Mingyu would be angry but this? This was ridiculous. A _tantrum._ So Wonwoo sat quietly on the edge of the bed and waited. After a few more minutes of yelling and throwing things Mingyu finally calmed down, slumping on the bed beside Wonwoo. He was breathing heavily, eyes still clouded with rage. But at least he was done acting like a child.

“Please don’t hurt anyone,” Wonwoo whispered, remembering the aftermath of the piano. Wet screams in the middle of the night. Fleeing the only home he and Mingyu would remember with nothing but the clothes on their back. His stomach churned. “Mingyu, please.”

“I have no other choice,” he hissed. “None of them will listen to me, which means they need a reminder of what I can do. They need a reminder that this is _my_ opera house, and the Vicomte needs to be taught that Jeonghan is _mine.”_

“Can’t you do that without hurting anyone?” Wonwoo tried, knowing it would be in vain. He knew Mingyu far too well.

Mingyu sat up, something even more dangerous settling in his eyes, and Wonwoo wanted to shrink away. But he couldn’t. “What do you care if I hurt them or not, Wonwoo? They’ve never treated you with kindness or respect. To them, you’ll always be that dirty orphan the former owner picked up off the streets.”

Wonwoo couldn’t help it; he winced at his words. Even though he was a few months older than Minghao sometimes the man still looked at him with that same kind of condescending pity he’d had the first night they’d met, when Minghao was a mere ballerino. Even though he had worked here for almost twenty years he still didn’t feel like he belonged. Not even with Chan, his actual little brother, and Jeonghan, his “adopted” little brother. Even when they’d bonded over being orphans, eleven year old Jeonghan whispering that “we can be each other’s family”, it still hadn’t been enough. And Mingyu knew it. He knew all of Wonwoo’s deepest, darkest insecurities and never hesitated to use them against him. And like clockwork Wonwoo fell for it. Every damn time.

“I still care about them,” he whispered, voice meeker than he would’ve liked. “They’re my friends. Chan’s my _brother.”_

A derisive scoff left Mingyu’s lips. “What a fool you are, Wonwoo, to think they’d ever truly be your friends.”

Wonwoo sighed and looked down at his boots. He knew what Mingyu was doing; it was what he’d always done. Whenever he felt like he was losing control of something or everything he’d play these games with Wonwoo because he knew that no matter what, he would _always_ have a hold on him. No matter what, Wonwoo would always submit because he was wrapped around his finger. Because he _loved_ Mingyu, god damn it, despite how cruelly, viciously twisted he was. And that hurt the most.

Jeonghan had been able to leave. And Wonwoo knew that somehow, someday he’d be free of Mingyu’s influence, his control. That he was strong enough to free himself. But Wonwoo also knew the same was not true of himself. He was too weak. Call it some distorted sense of responsibility; he’d spent so long looking after Mingyu, spent so long refusing to see his wickedness until it was too late, that he couldn’t leave now. Couldn’t give up on him now.

Or, he thought as he glanced at Mingyu again, meeting his black eyes, it was easier this way, surrendering. Mingyu was right that he had no real friends here in this opera house. Even Chan was wary of him, preferring Jeonghan as an older brother despite the lack of familial blood between them. And now… now he had failed Jeonghan. He’d allowed Mingyu to take Jeonghan under his thumb, to take him to bed. To bring him under his spell. All because he was too weak to stop him. So perhaps he deserved to have someone as iniquitous as Mingyu as his only friend. it made sense.

“I should return,” he said quietly. “We’re rehearsing _Hannibal_ again. S-so that Seungkwan can sing tonight.”

Mingyu’s gaze hardened at his words and Wonwoo hated it. But he must’ve shown his distaste because Mingyu smirked. “Don’t fret, Wonwoo. I only want what’s mine. And I won’t hesitate to remove anything in my way.”

 _That’s the issue,_ Wonwoo wanted to say. _None of this belongs to you._

But he said nothing. Like always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! <3


	7. six: endless whispers

**six: endless whispers**

_“I’m ready.”_

What a lie that had been. Really, Jeonghan should not have agreed to this. He should’ve said no, maybe suggested another day when he knew Seungcheol was busy, and that way he never would’ve had to set foot in this place again.

Because no, he’s not ready. Not in the slightest.

The foyer, much like the rest of the opera house, he figures, has been left to the atrophies of time after what happened; the once grand staircase is unremarkable now, most of its marble cracked and stained, resting in disrepair. Cobwebs cling to every surface, weaving here and there, unmoving in the stale, silent air. The colors that once adorned these walls, the statues that were bright and golden, the stained-glass windows that cast such vibrant lights - all of it is muted. Insignificant. And if one had never seen the foyer in its original splendor they might take a look now and say, “What was so impressive about it?”

Images come and go faster than Jeonghan can cling to them; he reaches but they remain out of his grasp, shrouded in murky shadows.

(If he’s telling the truth, most of his memories of this place have been tainted by darkness; what he can remember clearly haunts him still.)

His first glimpse of this same foyer when he was ten, how entranced by its beauty he’d been. Sneaking out here before shows just to see their audience members react to it; Paris’s richest and powerful, taking quiet, reverent steps along the staircase. It never failed to give him chills.

Dancing with Seungcheol at a masquerade ball for the new year, the foyer packed with friends - and phantoms.

He breathes in, slow and deep.

“Jeonghan?”

He turns his head at the sound of Seungcheol’s voice and meets his husband’s gaze in the lack of light. “Yes?”

Seungcheol gives him a soft, curious look and moves to wrap strong arms around his waist. Relief flutters through Jeonghan’s body like warmth and he leans back against Seungcheol, his own hands coming up to rest on his husband’s. “Are you all right? Do we need to leave?”

“I’m okay,” he whispers as Seungcheol rests his chin on his shoulder and for a moment, he closes his eyes. For a moment, he can pretend it’s twenty years ago. He and Seungcheol are young again, madly in love - if he opens his eyes he might see Chan’s sweet, young face, with eyes so bright they seemed to hold the entire world. Or maybe he’ll see Wonwoo, the guarded warmth he always held. Maybe Seungkwan, the haughty smirk he always wore except when he looked at Hansol.

If he opens his eyes he might - he might see _him._

“Shh, it’s okay, my love,” Seungcheol whispers near his ear, bringing him back to the present with gentle kisses along his neck.

And Jeonghan can feel the tension in his own body, how tightly he’s gripping Seungcheol’s hands.

For a moment, he’s scared of opening his eyes.

“He’s not here,” Seungcheol continues, and he always knows exactly what Jeonghan is thinking. “I swear, love. Wonwoo told us himself what happened.”

“But he _is_ here,” Jeonghan murmurs, intertwining his and his husband’s fingers. “He’s everywhere in this damned theater, Seungcheol. He’s in every memory, lurking in the shadows. I couldn’t escape him then and - and now - “

He trails off into a choked sound, a sob he had no idea was even there. It shakes his entire body, burns in his throat and behind his eyes. But he won’t let the tears fall; he’s wasted so many goddamn tears on Mingyu and for what?

Seungcheol sighs and with gentle, reserved touches he turns Jeonghan around. And even with his eyes closed Jeonghan can see the look on his face - soft, entreating gaze, brows knitted in worry. It’s burned into his mind after so long; he’s seen it countless times.

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol whispers. “Open your eyes.”

Just the thought sends a fresh stab of terror lacing through his being and he shakes his head. He can’t risk it - God, it’s so irrational, so foolish… but Mingyu belongs to the shadows. And the shadows belong to him. They always have. And Jeonghan knows he’s gone, he knows it, God he _knows_ it.

Yet it seems like a joke. Too good to be true.

That if he opens his eyes, Mingyu will be standing there. The way he is in Jeonghan’s dreams sometimes. His nightmares. Nightmares he doesn’t tell Seungcheol about but he doesn’t have to because Seungcheol just knows.

“Jeonghan,” and his husband’s voice is firm but warm. Seungcheol is _here,_ shouldn’t that be enough?

“I _can’t,”_ he wheezes around tears he won’t shed. “I ca - Seungcheol, I…”

“Yes you can, love. I’m here, nothing will hurt you. Remember?”

A rooftop on a summer night. Fear and trauma mixing dizzyingly in Jeonghan’s brain, and all he’d wanted was for Seungcheol to _stay._ To never let him go.

_“That’s all I ask of you.”_

Jeonghan opens his eyes.

And all he sees is Seungcheol.

All that’s here is Seungcheol.

No phantoms, no ghosts, no darkness - Seungcheol is light. He is calm. He is warmth and hope and safety and Jeonghan throws his arms around his neck, crushing him to him in a hug that steals his breath away. And Seungcheol holds him just as tightly, rubbing his back with slow, soothing motions as Jeonghan’s tears finally spill over.

Not for Mingyu - but for Seungcheol. Seungcheol and the pure, irrevocable love he holds for him. The love Jeonghan holds for him.

And they stay like that until Jeonghan calms down and his sobs have subsided into an aching throat and a swollen upper lip. Seungcheol wipes his cheeks with solemn thumbs and then leans in for a forehead kiss that makes Jeonghan shiver in its warmth.

“I’m not leaving your side, Jeonghan,” he whispers. “I’m by your side with every step. I swear. Just like all those years ago.”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything - he can’t; so he just holds Seungcheol close again and buries his face in his neck, part of him wanting nothing more than to close his mind against the memories beginning to rise up. But he shouldn’t; they deserve their place in his mind as much as any happy thought.

Without Mingyu, he wouldn’t have Seungcheol.

And it’s this he clings to as they make their way deeper into the opera house.

The cafe was a few minutes’ walk from the opera house but it felt longer with the sharp chill in the morning air. Even with Seungcheol’s coat on (a coat Jeonghan refused the moment it was offered to him but Seungcheol insisted) he still shivered. A part of him knew that he could just lean against Seungcheol’s strong, warm body and he would no longer be cold. But that felt like a - like a betrayal to Mingyu. Even after what he did.

The bruise on his cheek throbbed.

While they walked, Jeonghan hummed. It was a simple tune, one he remembered from his childhood, and Seungcheol remembered it too; joined in with a rather discordant vocal rendition that left Jeonghan clinging to him in laughter.

“Oh is that not how it’s supposed to sound?” Cheol asked, as passersby gave them odd looks for their behavior (and some of their eyes strayed to the marks on Jeonghan’s skin, like they had judgments to pass).

But Jeonghan didn’t care. He merely giggled softly, liking how full and joyous Seungcheol’s laughter was. “Hardly.”

Something shone in Seungcheol’s big, brown eyes as his laughter softened into a smile. “You’ll have to show me how to sing it properly, then, Hannie. Sometime.”

For a moment, Jeonghan didn’t respond. It was so easy to just - lose himself in Seungcheol. In his wide, handsome grins. In his warm, adoring gazes. Like this, he could forget. Like this, he wasn’t bruised and on the verge of breaking. He wasn’t a dancer with dreams of more - with Seungcheol, he was just himself. Just Jeonghan. The way he always had been.

It left him feeling a warmth he hadn’t known in years. One that started at his gloved hand, which Seungcheol took in his own, and spread throughout the rest of his body until he didn’t need Seungcheol’s coat.

But he still kept it on.

The cafe was decently busy when they arrived and Seungcheol led him to a table in the back, giving him quiet, earnest instructions to stay put because he wanted to order for him. Not in a controlling sort of way, Jeonghan assumed - that had never been Seungcheol - but perhaps more for the element of surprise. To test himself. So Jeonghan did as he was asked and sat quietly, just taking in everything around him. The deep, warm scents of bread and cookies and pastries that reminded him of home with a lump in his throat. The soft chatter of the other customers. The familiar way Seungcheol greeted the baker, like they were old friends.

And then Jeonghan’s thoughts turned to him, to the man who somehow made his way back into his life after so long. Like fate. Somehow, Seungcheol had not changed at all. Yes of course he’d grown taller, grown into his nose and ears, grown far more handsome than Jeonghan thought he would. But in his heart he was still the same loving boy who treated everyone like his friend. Like they had secrets and inside jokes and information between them that no one else knew.

But in Jeonghan’s case that was absolutely true. And he wondered how much Seungcheol remembered about their ten years together. How much of it he’d forgotten over their ten years apart. Jeonghan himself had subconsciously let go of some of the little things but he recalled all the important moments.

He couldn’t wait to share them with Seungcheol again.

Their eyes met across the room when Seungcheol turned around, plates with pastries in hand, and something inside Jeonghan warmed again in a way it hadn’t in so long when Seungcheol smiled at him.

“Your smile hasn’t changed a bit,” Jeonghan said quietly when Seungcheol joined him at the table, setting one of the plates in front of him.

“Are you saying I look like a child when I smile?” But there it was, showing off his pink gums in a way that made Jeonghan’s heart swell.

Jeonghan merely smiled too, letting his statement speak for itself, and then he looked at the plate in front of him. A familiar pastry sat before him, forgotten in the recesses of his mind over a decade without it, a decade living in poverty he had become used to. Such a sweet, simple gesture from an equally familiar friend filled Jeonghan with warmth and he looked up at a coyly smiling Seungcheol. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did,” Seungcheol said. “You and your sweet tooth ate eclairs every day since you were seven.”

Jeonghan couldn’t help the blush that spread over his face and without another word he reached for the utensils sharing the plate and dug in.

“How is it?” Seungcheol asked as he watched Jeonghan take a bite, fondness in his eyes.

He chewed quietly, trying not to smile as the pastry’s sweet taste touched his tongue but he couldn’t help it and he grinned after swallowing. “It’s perfect, Cheollie. I love it.”

Seungcheol returned his smile and only then did he dig into his breakfast too, like he wouldn’t have touched it if Jeonghan wasn’t satisfied with his.

They ate in silence for a while, mostly just enjoying each other’s easy, familiar company. And Jeonghan liked it. God, somehow after ten years apart they still managed to get back where they once were, like they’d never been apart in the first place.

But they had. And Jeonghan found that he could not stop looking at Seungcheol, at the way his curly hair fell into his face, the soft slope of his eyelids, the strength in his jaw and shoulders. He was refined and elegant and so achingly handsome Jeonghan could almost forgive himself for wanting to curl up in his arms and share kisses.

Almost.

As if reading his subconscious, Seungcheol swallowed a bite and asked, “So tell me about your tutor, Hannie. I’m curious about him.”

Again, the bruise on his cheek began to throb, in time with his heart. No doubt Seungcheol thought his… less than unkempt appearance was because of Mingyu, who he said he’d see last night. God, Jeonghan had even indirectly talked about him a while ago, up in the dancers’ dormitory.

_“I’m scared, Cheollie.”_

But there was nothing in Seungcheol’s gaze that suggested he was angry or disappointed or anything like that. Just inquisitive. So Jeonghan took a breath. “It’s going to sound like a story. Like I’m lying.” A humorless laugh passed his lips before he could stop it. “No one else really believes me; that’s why I don’t talk about it.”

“Jeonghan.” He reached for one of his hands across the table and Jeonghan gave it willingly. And in a moment he was warm again. Safe. “I would never judge you. You can tell me anything.”

Jeonghan nodded, mostly to himself, and he knew Seungcheol would never lie to him. “Well, all right. I… you remember when my father died, don’t you?”

“I do,” he murmured, emotion thick in his voice as the memories must have resurfaced.

They did in Jeonghan’s mind; Seungcheol by his side unendingly, sitting next to him at his father’s sickbed all day and all night. Holding him when he finally passed; both of them ten years old and not really understanding what happened but nonetheless Seungcheol had been there for him until they’d been parted.

Jeonghan squeezed his hand now and Cheol squeezed back.

“You remember when he told me about the - the angel of music?”

Something dark passed across Seungcheol’s face but it was gone before Jeonghan could really register it. “Of course. Your father said he’d send him to you when he died. So that you wouldn’t be alone.”

“Well,” Jeonghan said quietly, “he did. A few months after I arrived here, the angel came to me. And he started teaching me. Every night for the last ten years.”

Seungcheol’s eyes changed then. They sharpened, darkened, and Jeonghan didn’t like it. “I see. And that’s why you said he shouldn’t join us for dinner last night.”

His unasked question hung in the air and Jeonghan could have grabbed it if he wanted to. Could’ve acknowledged it. Could’ve given Seungcheol the response he wanted. But he felt ashamed. Ashamed that he’d abandoned Seungcheol in the cold for… for Mingyu. When he should’ve had more self-control. When he should’ve been able to say _no._

So instead of responding, Jeonghan merely nodded and wished he had another eclair to take up his time and attention.

Maybe then he could’ve better ignored the emotions flickering across Seungcheol’s face.

“I found an… interesting note in my carriage last night,” he said quietly, thumb stroking over Jeonghan’s hand that he still held. But instead of instilling warmth it just added to Jeonghan’s anxiety. It felt tainted, by the invisible presence of a phantom both of them pretended not to recognize. “It really worried me, Hannie. Which is why I came here at first light.”

“A note?” he asked, even though there was something foreboding in Seungcheol’s tone. Something that scared him. Something he didn’t like hearing.

He nodded silently, jaw muscles working beneath his skin. “It… it was addressed to me from an - an O.G. and talked about you being… being _safe_ \- “ he spoke the word with thinly veiled derision that made Jeonghan wince - “with your angel of music. That I shouldn’t try to see you, ever again.”

The more Seungcheol spoke, the farther away he sounded. Like Jeonghan was underwater, had dunked himself beneath the water in his bath the way he liked to do.

So not only had Mingyu laid claim to him against his bedsheets last night - but he’d done so in a threatening letter to Seungcheol as well.

“And then coming here to learn you’d been missing the entire night, after you told me you were spending time with your tutor - this angel of music - and then… then seeing you crying this morning. Bruised up.”

The world seemed to be spinning faster than usual and Jeonghan grabbed onto the seat of his chair for purchase. To keep himself steady. He wished Seungcheol would just say what was on his mind - he wished he never would’ve gone with Mingyu last night - he wished - he wished -

“I’m worried about you, Jeonghan,” he finally whispered. “About this ‘tutor’. He’s obviously hurting you and - “

“It’s nothing,” Jeonghan breathed above the panic settling in his chest, the desire to defend Mingyu rising up before he can stop it. “And it… it’s not your place, Seungcheol.”

He opened his mouth to retort and then closed it, hurt marring his features. And guilt mixed in with everything else Jeonghan felt, guilt for making Seungcheol look at him that way, but he had to.

“I-I know you’re worried,” Jeonghan tried again, and the words came easier this time, “but please. It’s not important. You don’t need to be worried. I’m okay.”

“Are you?” he murmured, eyes big and deep and sad.

“Yes,” and he attempted some sort of finality, of resolve in his tone. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Just please leave it alone, Seungcheol. It’s not worth making a fuss over.”

For a few moments, Seungcheol just looked at him, and it filled Jeonghan with even more shame to the point where he had to turn his head. Find something else to focus on. He knew Seungcheol wasn’t convinced - Jeonghan had seen the desire to protect, to hurt those that might’ve hurt him flick across his face this morning, in the dorms - but what was he supposed to say? Jeonghan himself didn’t even truly understand the situation. Besides, only a small amount of the bruises on his body were given to him with malicious intent. The others had been acts of love.

And who was Seungcheol to judge? He didn’t know Mingyu the way Jeonghan did. He didn’t know the other moments they’d shared, how Mingyu had been one of his only friends for almost a decade. He only knew this one particular instance of violence.

Which Jeonghan _had_ triggered.

It was his fault, wasn’t it? If he hadn’t taken off the mask - if he hadn’t forced Mingyu into intimacy that he wasn’t ready for…

But Seungcheol had said that you shouldn’t hurt the ones you love.

But Mingyu loved him, Jeonghan knew it.

Forgetting himself, forgetting his company and surroundings, Jeonghan let out a groan and buried his face in his hands. He wanted to stop thinking. He wanted to stop doubting Mingyu, because for so long he’d been Jeonghan’s only supporter, one of his only friends. And was a slap something to… to give that up over?

“Just leave it alone, Cheollie,” Jeonghan whispered again. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure,” Seungcheol finally said, sounding as resigned as Jeonghan had ever heard him.

But at least he agreed to tuck the issue away. For now.

Perhaps it’d allow Jeonghan time to clear his head and think.

“Take me back,” he said softly, not strong enough to venture even a glance up at Seungcheol. “Please.”

Seungcheol sighed but relented.

When they finally returned, Jeonghan ignored the looks he was given and slipped right into rehearsals without missing a beat, relegating himself to the chorus once more as Boo Seungkwan took his rightful place as star.

And so it was for that night’s performance, a performance that left Jeonghan with a strange, unexplainable weight on his body. A weight that left him fidgety and anxious, unable to relax no matter what he did. Even now, laying in his head, sleep did not find him.

The last time he remembered being scared of the dark was his first night at the opera house. Missing his late parents, missing Seungcheol and his toys and his warm bed he’d snuck into the prop closet Wonwoo used as a bedroom and crawled onto the mattress, next to the older boy. He remembered the surprised noise Wonwoo had made and the way he’d immediately pulled Jeonghan close to him.

_“Can’t sleep?”_ he’d whispered in the darkness, and Jeonghan scooted even closer.

_“No.”_

_“Scared of the dark?”_

Jeonghan had closed his eyes at the mention of the darkness and wished Seungcheol was there to sing him to sleep, like he always had been. But Seungcheol wasn't there, so he'd gripped Wonwoo's shirt with his fingers. _"Yes."_

_"I'd say don't be, but that's easier said than done. Besides,"_ he'd said with a stray hand running through Jeonghan's long hair, the only thing he'd been allowed to keep upon arriving at the opera house, _"there's a lot to be scared of in the dark. Monsters and things that might hurt you. But I won't let any of it touch you, Jeonghan. Okay?"_

_"Okay,"_ he'd whispered, deciding that he could trust Wonwoo. He was alone like Jeonghan was. No parents, no family. That meant they only had each other, right?

Now Jeonghan turned on his back in his own bed, smiling when a sleeping Chan almost immediately snuggled closer, and then frowning when his cheek throbbed a bit. He’d stopped being afraid of what lurked in the dark in that moment long ago because Wonwoo had been there. Because Wonwoo was tall and strong and warm and kind; because something told Jeonghan that he would fight for him. But now, Jeonghan again worried about what he could not see. He worried about what lay hidden in the shadows.

He worried he might see Mingyu.

They had parted that morning on such uncertain terms; Jeonghan cowering every time Mingyu even looked at him on their journey back to the dressing room, Mingyu walking silently, broad shoulders held tautly. Did Mingyu hate him for what he’d done? Had Jeonghan made an enemy of one of the few people who’d accepted him for who he was, one of the few people who loved him?

_“You don’t hurt people you love, in any way.”_

_“When you love someone you cherish them.”_

Seungcheol’s words echoed unendingly in his mind, as they had since he’d uttered them, and they filled Jeonghan with such unrest. Part of him wanted to believe them but the other part of him wasn’t certain. Mingyu _had_ cherished him, hadn’t he? Touched him with reverent hands, held him so close in the dark. Helped him and supported him when most others did not. And before that morning he’d never hurt Jeonghan. Only the occasional biting anger that left Jeonghan trembling. But never anything physical. So that was doubtlessly a one-time occurrence, right? A spur of the moment reaction because Jeonghan had betrayed his trust.

_“You don’t hurt people you love, in any way.”_

_You do if they deserve it._

Mingyu had struck him because he’d been hurt himself. Because Jeonghan had pushed him, had removed the mask without his permission. And that justified it.

Right?

Gently untwining his body from Chan’s warmth, he rolled onto his back again and opened his eyes. The dorms were pitch-black and there was nothing that signaled Mingyu was near. And that was what worried Jeonghan the most. Over the last decade he’d grown so used to his familiarity, to knowing that no matter what Mingyu was always around, watching over him. Guarding him. The way Seungcheol had when they were children. Jeonghan remembered how terrified he’d been over losing that particular protector; the panic that settled like a fire in his bones, a fire that threatened to spiral out of control until it consumed him because there was no one there to calm it. Not his parents, not Seungcheol himself. Not the people he needed most.

Back then, at ten years old, he’d been alone. No one, not even Wonwoo, made him feel safe like that. Until Mingyu. Now the same fire stoked itself with tremors in his hands, an uncomfortable heat pouring over his body, and he _needed_ to find Mingyu.

Needed to know he was still there.

Jeonghan slipped from the bed, turning back as always to ensure Chan still slept, and crept through the dormitory with silent steps. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that Mingyu was gone. That, after what Jeonghan had done, ten years of friendship and a night of - of whatever it was they were now weren’t enough anymore. That Jeonghan had lost the person he relied on more than anyone else.

_You have Chan,_ something supplied in the back of his mind. _Wonwoo, too. Even Minghao and the dancers. And Cheol’s back now as well._

But all that, even Seungcheol, was different. None of them watched over him the way Mingyu had been for years. He’d grown, in so many ways, with Mingyu. Mingyu was his teacher, his tutor - without him, Jeonghan would not have been able to sing last night.

Mingyu meant so much to him and Jeonghan had taken him for granted.

And now, with panic invading his bones, Jeonghan stepped out of the dancers’ dormitory. Straight into the dark that he used to welcome - the dark that used to hold so much for him.

The dark that scared him now.

For the first time in ages he hated the opera house after a performance. Everyone was either at home or sound asleep in their rooms and dorms; even Seungcheol had left, after a brief encounter that could only be described as awkward (thanks to Jeonghan’s reaction at the cafe earlier).

God, the worry in his eyes. How quickly he had sought Jeonghan out after the performance's end. But Jeonghan had just hugged him and told him to return home; that he was okay. Again. And Seungcheol had given him that terse look. Again. He wasn’t a fool and Jeonghan knew that. But it still wasn’t something he could explain. Even now, alone with his thoughts, Jeonghan still could not make sense of everything that had happened.

Perhaps everyone loved differently, and Mingyu's love was rougher, intense, like a fire raging out of control. Consuming all it touched without a thought.

Jeonghan's body still ached as he made his way through the halls, along that familiar path. And he was reminded of Mingyu with every step; from the way his legs ached, the way the bite marks stung as they rubbed against his shirt. The way his cheek throbbed almost incessantly. And he hated it. Every dark corner he rounded, every sound he jumped at. _Everything_ reminded him that Mingyu was nowhere to be found. Nowhere near him.

“Jeonghan?”

Wonwoo’s voice, low and deep, shocked him from his thoughts and he turned to see the older man holding a lantern in one hand. His face was pinched with worry and Jeonghan sighed at it. “What are you doing awake?” he asked quietly, hoping it might distract him.

But Wonwoo was too smart for that and really, Jeonghan should’ve known. “I could ask you the same question, Jeonghan. Come on, back to bed.”

“No,” he said, trying his best not to sound petulant. “I have - there’s something I have to do.”

“I’m sure it can wait till morning, Han.” He approached quietly and reached his free hand out to squeeze Jeonghan’s shoulder. And in that moment he was the Wonwoo from years ago, the Wonwoo that held him close and comforted him without reason. He was warm and kind and Jeonghan felt the desire to break. To tell Wonwoo everything. He’d know what to do, right?

But he’d be so worried. And… and maybe he’d want to hurt Mingyu or something. Especially since revealing him would mean revealing the phantom that had terrorized the opera house for years.

So Jeonghan kept his mouth shut and, against his better judgment, went with Wonwoo back to the dormitory. He climbed back into bed next to a still-sleeping Chan and tried not to think about Mingyu waiting for him, somewhere deep down there - waiting for him to come back to him. To apologize.

And as he lay there, trying in vain to get some sleep, a dark thought came to him. One he hated even registering but somehow it felt right.

Would Mingyu punish him for not apologizing? Would he punish others?

His mind turned to the letter Seungcheol had mentioned and he curled into himself, willing everything to just - just stop.

Was Mingyu truly the man the stories said he was? If he was capable of hurting someone he loved, was he capable of killing, the way the stories claimed?

Should Jeonghan even _want_ to go back to him?

_But he loves me._

Did he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a big thank you to everyone who reads this au! i am so grateful to each and every one of you! <3


	8. seven: seething shadows, breathing lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this has taken me so long omg :((( but i'll start updating this one more regularly from now on, i promise!
> 
> tw: there's some brief, non-explicit dubious consent towards the end of this chapter, but it does not go farther than that.
> 
> enjoy! <3

**seven: seething shadows, breathing lies**

_Every time Wonwoo came down here, Mingyu always had something new. Props he used as furniture or decoration. Trinkets and belongings he posed as his own. And as stagehand, Wonwoo felt a responsibility to take them all back with him. But as Mingyu’s friend, his caretaker, he left them down here._

_Abandoned to the dark._

_Fitting, he supposed._

_Mingyu sat with his back to him, scribbling furiously at his organ, but even like that, Wonwoo could still see the mask perched upon his face. As if he had anything to hide down here, tucked away alone from the world._

_Nine years on, and no one knew he was down here except for Wonwoo. But that was precisely the way they wanted it. Even if all the missing objects were just feeding into this “phantom” delusion._

_A delusion Wonwoo increasingly thought Mingyu enjoyed. But of course he did; eighteen years old and all but imprisoned down here… well, it would be expected of him to want to play around._

_Wonwoo just wasn’t sure it was safe. For anyone._

_“I was in the rafters today,” Mingyu said without preamble, shoulders relaxing as he straightened up from the organ. But he didn't turn around._

_“I know you were,” Wonwoo said as he approached him. “You weren’t secretive about it.”_

_An amused smirk crossed the side of his face Wonwoo could see, and it brought a sort of mature… wickedness to his youthful features. He suddenly looked a lot older than he actually was, and Wonwoo didn’t like it. “I suppose not. But how could I when they were rehearsing that drivel? Lee Jihoon might be ‘talented’ but he’s no genius. Especially for his age.”_

_Wonwoo sighed heavily, sitting down next to Mingyu. “You say this every time I see you, Mingyu.”_

_“Because I’m a far better composer than he is.” He looked at Wonwoo, who heaved out a sigh._

_“Why do you have this on down here, Mingyu?” he murmured, reaching out a slow, gentle hand towards his face. His fingertips touched the edge of the mask, skirting beneath it to lift it; scarred, burned skin brushed his own. “It’s oka - “_

_Mingyu slapped his hand away, anger hardening his face, and Wonwoo drew back as if_ he _were the one singed. He didn’t have to speak; the ire in his eyes was more than enough. It made Wonwoo recoil in a way he only ever did with Mingyu._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at the pages of the sheet music before him but he did not register a single word, a single note._

_Mingyu said nothing._

_Neither of them did for a time, sitting in the silence that only the depths of the opera house could provide._

_And then: “There’s a new dancer.”_

_Wonwoo glanced at him, whose eyes were decidedly elsewhere. He was doing this more and more often, ignoring his own rage when it suited him. He’d lash out and then pretend nothing happened. And he expected Wonwoo to do the same. Always. “Um, yes there is. His name is Jeonghan. I guess his parents were socialites or - “_

_“Were?”_

_Just like that, everything about him seemed to perk up. He even looked at Wonwoo like the young man he was, something resembling joy swimming in his dark eyes. “Yes. He’s orphaned. Just like us.”_

_Mingyu turned towards him fully then and a smile spread across his lips. “That’s - he’s… is he really?”_

_Once again, Wonwoo did not like the look in Mingyu’s eyes. But despite his vastly different moods, this one gave him the same apprehension. Mingyu did not know how he loved; he did not know the intensity with which he existed. And to inflict that on such a small, young, hurting,_ grieving _child was hardly fair. Jeonghan needed to heal - he needed friends his own age to replace what he had lost._

_He needed to be on his own for some time._

_“Mingyu…”_

_“He’s alone just like us, Wonwoo! I… he needs us, doesn’t he?”_

_He tried to keep his tone, his features gentle. He tried to reach out and touch but Mingyu would not let him, still. “Let him alone, Mingyu. Please. He’s mourning. Let him get used to his new life and then… perhaps…”_

_But Wonwoo knew his words would go unheeded; they always did. Mingyu would do what he wanted and Wonwoo would be there to pick up the pieces. He’d be there to defend, to protect, to try and explain when, once again, Mingyu went misunderstood._

_“Mingyu, we’ve been here for almost ten years,” he said quietly, making sure to think before he spoke. “I’m on track to becoming chief stagehand - I’m making friends, building a life here…”_

_“What are you trying to say?”_

_Wonwoo sighed softly and the desire to reach out and touch, as it always did, burned brightly in his heart. But he kept his hands back, not wanting to anger Mingyu anymore. “Just… be careful. If you’re found out, I can’t promise it’ll work out like it did last time.”_

_Mingyu sat quietly for a moment. And then several moments. And then more, and Wonwoo knew. He understood. He rose from the bench and left without another word, leaving Mingyu behind._

_Abandoning him in the darkness._

There was a little more warmth in the mornings when the company began rehearsals for _Il Muto,_ and Jeonghan was grateful for it. It made getting out of bed that much easier, less grumbling and whining in the dormitories. And Soonyoung complained less too. Actually, everything felt somewhat normal as they headed into spring. No, more than normal. This was a new routine Jeonghan just could not settle into.

And it left him frustratingly on edge.

Normal meant Mingyu, even in his “phantom” form, messing around in the rafters, making his presence known. Normal meant sneaking out for midnight meetings, training his voice until dawn. Normal meant being excited by the prospect that Mingyu could be near; it meant _knowing_ he was there.

But ever since that night, none of that had happened. Mingyu left their rehearsals alone, there were no meetings, no tutoring, no seeing him or feeling him close. Jeonghan didn’t know what to think. In all the years he’d known Mingyu, this had never happened. And the _way_ it happened, the way they left it… it brought a stone of anxiety sinking down Jeonghan’s throat.

He would’ve spiraled, truly, into a pit of self-despair, missing his closest friend, his tutor, his _angel…_ if it hadn’t been for Seungcheol.

The bout of awkwardness after the cafe did not last long and then they were back to their usual selves; spending almost all of their time together. Every day, during touch-up preparations for _Hannibal_ and now for _Il Muto,_ Seungcheol made it a point to be there. He watched over rehearsals from start to finish, every single day. No matter the time, if someone was on stage dancing or singing, he was there in the front row. Or sometimes he’d situate himself in different parts of the theater, to hear how it all sounded. And then he’d report back to a reluctantly grateful Jihoon. This was another part of their “new normal”; Seungcheol’s presence. Not that Jeonghan minded - none of them did, really. He was bright and happy and so invested in everything they did.

And _handsome._

Often, during down time or when he didn’t have to be onstage, he found himself watching Seungcheol. The way he’d laugh with his whole body during the comedic parts, the way he’d blush under some of the dancers’ gazes. The way he ran around the theater on his missions from Jihoon (Jeonghan was convinced that Jihoon was just doing that to see how far Seungcheol would go, to simply tease him; he’d never been counting on his generosity though, it seemed.). The way he interacted with every single person like they were an old friend and he missed them dearly.

The small, soft smile he’d give Jeonghan when he caught him staring. The smile that seemed to only be for him.

Yes, without Seungcheol’s constant presence, Jeonghan would’ve spiraled.

Like he did when night fell.

All but alone in the dormitories, trying to block out the sounds of the other dancers sleeping soundly, sleep would not find him. No, he spent his nights lying awake, thinking about Mingyu.

He couldn’t make sense of his thoughts, truly; they ranged from agreeing with Seungcheol, agreeing that Mingyu had been wrong to hit him; to missing him and his presence, the way he made Jeonghan feel so safe, missing a touch he never thought he would feel. More often than not he found himself defending Mingyu’s actions to himself, yet it still didn’t feel right. So really, he would just end up in circles, which would exhaust him further.

And he never came to any sort of conclusion or decision.

Should he go try and find Mingyu, try and apologize? Or should he wait for Mingyu to come to him, to apologize to _him?_

Jeonghan felt like he was losing his mind. And he didn’t know what to do.

A few weeks after rehearsals begin, there was a new face among the company, a distinctly handsome, almost feminine, face. He wore his dark hair long and loose and stood like a dancer; tall and graceful and confident. In fact, everything about him screamed confidence: from his stance to his coolly indifferent eyes as he took it all in. There was something intriguing about him that made murmurs go up among the company. Murmurs he seemed to drink in with a kind of amused smugness. It was different from the way Seungkwan looked at them, though.

Jeonghan liked him already.

He was introduced to them as Wen Junhui, a member of a ballet troupe from the east of France, returned to Paris to help care for his ailing father.

“In the meantime,” Wonwoo said, eyes straying to the newcomer in a way that made Jeonghan giggle, “he will be dancing with us. So treat him the same as you would anyone else in this company.”

Junhui’s sharp eyes found Wonwoo with a fiery sort of darkness. Just like the rest of him it was intriguing - and Wonwoo _blushed._ “Thank you for the… _rousing_ introduction, monsieur,” Junhui said quietly, in a soft, soothing voice. “I am honored to be here among such handsome talent, hmm?”

For the first time in a decade, Jeonghan saw Wonwoo flustered.

He coughed, he choked, he blushed.

Snickers went up among the company, unabated by Wonwoo’s usual fatal glares, suddenly missing.

Jeonghan leaned against Chan, who worked hard to keep his laughter behind his hand.

Across from them, Seungcheol grinned.

And then a chill ran down Jeonghan’s spine. It brought both joy and dread to his mind, joy and dread he must have shown on his face, for Wonwoo met his gaze with widened eyes.

In that moment, the world seemed to spin. Jeonghan could not grasp, could not hold onto anything - not sweet Chan’s hands, not Wonwoo’s worried gaze, not the whisperings breezing through the company. It all seemed distant, hazy, like a dream that could not be remembered come morning, no matter how hard he tried. The only thing he latched onto was _Mingyu Mingyu Mingyu -_

“Hannie?”

The dream shattered and Jeonghan sunk into Seungcheol’s arms. He was warm, he was there, he was _real,_ holding him so closely.

A cry went up from the rafters, the most anguished, desperate sound Jeonghan had ever heard - and Seungcheol’s arms tightened around him.

Jeonghan wanted to call out to Mingyu, wanted to go to him, wanted to hide from him.

Nothing made sense, he wished he could figure any of this out - wished he could decide what he truly wanted -

“Is that your _phantom?”_

Jeonghan looked up from the crook of Seungcheol’s neck to find Wen Junhui watching him with curious eyes. There was hardly any judgment there, nothing but interest. And then Jeonghan remembered where he was, where they all were.

He remembered who was watching.

He pulled away from Seungcheol’s grasp, looking anywhere but at his kind face. Not right now. Not with Mingyu so near, for the first time in weeks.

Wonwoo cleared his throat.

It echoed in the silence of the auditorium.

“Shall we continue?” he asked.

Being _almost star,_ Jeonghan got a few surprising perks. Namely, he didn’t have to help take apart the sets every night. Not that the dancers really had to do that to begin with, but he liked to help. He liked being around the stagehands; their laughter and jokes, crude as they could be, were always entertaining. Now, however, he could go right back to the dorms if he wanted to, call it a night, try and get sleep that would never come.

Except that the dorms did not have Seungcheol. No, every evening he was on the stage, talking with the stagehands as they dismantled their sets. Charming and smiling and without his coat, long white sleeves tugged up his forearms. He reminded Jeonghan of his younger self in those moments, carefree and quick to befriend.

So that was where Jeonghan spent his time, once the rest of the company had cleared out. And in such warm, comforting company, he’d forget about Mingyu. There was no room for him and his secretive shadows on this stage, bathed in light still. There was no room for him with how tightly Seungcheol held to him. Like he was afraid of Jeonghan disappearing. Like he was afraid of losing him again.

That night however, his touch, his strong arm around Jeonghan’s waist, was possessive. Demonstrative. A warning of sorts to anyone who would heed it.

And Jeonghan melted into it.

He pressed against Seungcheol’s warmth, needing it, _him,_ in a way that was so simultaneously soothing and unnerving. It left him feeling a way he used to only be able to associate with Mingyu. His stomach twisted with heat whenever Seungcheol was near, like he might be consumed in flames if they weren’t touching. And when they were, the embers only seemed to be stoked. Thrumming beneath his skin, scorching him from the inside out. It was intense and heady, and he wondered if Seungcheol felt it too; this heat, this tightening in his chest, tingling in his hands, in his limbs, whenever they were close.

Perhaps he did; Jeonghan shifted his weight onto his other foot and Seungcheol’s fingers curled into the stage costume he still wore.

Jeonghan shivered. Just slightly.

“You know,” Hansol said, stealing Jeonghan’s attention away from the warm hand on his waist, “you could help us if you wanted to, instead of standing around.”

They were almost done with the sets anyway, most of them moved back to their storage place backstage, but the smile Hansol wore was teasing. After a long day of rehearsals, a mere few weeks from opening, he still managed to be in a good mood.

So Jeonghan teased back. “I can’t,” he said with as much mock sadness as he could. “I’m basically the star so if I get hurt…”

Hansol laughed quietly, showing off a handsome smile. A handsome smile that, if the other dancers were to be believed, Boo Seungkwan was in love with. “I see. And what’s Monsieur le Vicomte’s excuse?”

Under his fake scrutiny, Seungcheol squirmed a bit, and Jeonghan watched with something fond and soft swelling in his chest, his throat. The people in the company were like his second family and to see Seungcheol getting along so well with them... “Uh, I can’t afford to ruin my pretty face. My parents will disown me. And then the opera house will be out its patron.”

Jeonghan, Hansol, and the rest of the stagehands chuckled at this, little tufts of laughter rising up around the stage, echoing in its emptiness. Like they knew a joke Seungcheol didn’t, and Jeonghan pressed against him when he noticed his precious pout. “You _are_ very pretty,” he murmured, and his voice was thick with emotion, with some sort of _want_ he didn’t even know he held.

Seungcheol met his gaze, tightening his grip around his waist, and in that moment, that single moment that still lives so vividly in Jeonghan’s memory, there was nothing but them. He forgot the stagehands around them, he forgot about the dancers and actors and Mingyu waiting somewhere for him. None of them were there, none of them were important; just him and Seungcheol in their own little world.

But then reality came back to them, in the form of Wonwoo all but ordering Seungcheol to leave, and they pulled away with red faces and awkward, coughing laughter.

He walked Jeonghan to the dormitories, hands joined the way they used to as children, and left him with a gentle kiss to his cheek. And Jeonghan watched him walk away, completely unaware of the smile on his face until he entered the dorms and the other dancers teased him about it.

That night, Seungcheol’s touch, his kiss, lingered like a brand seared into his skin, adding an entirely new stream of thoughts to Jeonghan’s already exhausted brain.

Was he falling in love with his oldest friend?

Was he still in love with Mingyu?

Was what they had even actually love?

As he was every other night, he was left sleepless, trying to make sense of the rush of consciousness he was faced with; trying to make sense of thoughts and situations and what ifs that threatened to drive him insane.

Not even Chan, curled up against his side, could lull him to sleep.

So he climbed out of bed.

Lampless, candleless, he made his way through the darkness. Hands trembling, heart aching, he walked through the quiet, empty opera house.

Determined and afraid, he made his decision.

There was no one in Seungkwan’s dressing room when Jeonghan got there, and he felt along the walls to guide him. Until -

The mirror.

As easily as it had that night, it opened for him now. And the darkness that welcomed Jeonghan was cold. It was absolute. It stood between him and redemption, him and rejection. Him and his angel.

The same path Mingyu had led him through, Jeonghan now walked alone. Blindly, he searched for his way. His footsteps echoed off of the stone walls, sharp and hard in the silence.

Lyrics passed his lips, then; they comforted him as he walked. And he sang to the darkness, to an audience that wasn’t there. His voice was as strong and confident as his heart was doubtful and indecisive, fighting against darkness that left him feeling emptier and emptier.

Hopeless.

And then -

“You haven’t sung that in a long time. Not since you were young.”

Jeonghan shivered as Mingyu’s voice came to his senses, brushing against each of his nerves, his cells, every part of his being. It was both a breath of fresh air and a gulp of water to the lungs, threatening to drown him just as it promised to rescue. In the darkness before him he could make out a figure he knew all too well, a figure that loomed tall and broad and menacing.

He craved comfort from it, companionship.

But did he deserve it?

“Mingyu,” he whispered, hoping, praying he would listen. “Mingyu, I’m sorry, I - I was wrong, I shouldn’t have done what I did. Please, I’m so sorry. Please…”

It came pouring out of him before he could stop it, in a rush of aching and longing he needed Mingyu to reciprocate. If he didn’t - if he lost Mingyu forever, for such a foolish mistake…

“You _were_ wrong,” he responded, in a tone softer than Jeonghan had earned, and he forgot how to breathe. “But I am willing to forgive you, Jeonghan.”

His words washed over him like relief, sweet and undeserved, and Jeonghan reached out. With desperate hands he reached out to what would surely be his destruction, what would no doubt be his downfall. But he welcomed it nonetheless, meeting Mingyu’s mouth in a rough kiss. Sealing his fate.

Mingyu took him back down to his dwelling and Jeonghan found himself naked and vulnerable once more, opening up for him in a dark, deliciously familiar way. He preened under Mingyu’s words, the way he always had, making breathless promises he more than intended to keep in the moment. But then the moment ended, as quickly as it had come about, and as Mingyu pulled him into his arms dread tugged at his subconscious.

Fear.

It was unwelcome in the sudden quiet, filled only by Mingyu’s heavy breaths. It was _loud_ in the sudden quiet, plaguing Jeonghan’s mind until he felt like his head might split in two.

Mingyu had taken him back too easily, too eagerly after that morning. After seeing him in the arms of another man. After months apart. And it did not make sense. Mingyu should’ve been angrier, he should’ve… should’ve…

A pressure between his legs, once again stroking at his entrance, stole his attention. Mingyu looked at him with something dangerous in his eyes; the mask stared at him, taunting him. He remembered what lay hidden beneath it; he remembered Mingyu’s slap, his harsh touch, his alarming words.

_“Fear can turn to love.”_

“You’ll always come back to me, won’t you, angel?” he whispered now, demanding more than Jeonghan could give, always, always. “Because you belong to me. You are _mine.”_

His touch was as insistent as his words, pressing inside him once more; rough and harsh and as far from loving as he could be.

Jeonghan realized that he was, indeed, wrong. But not for the reasons Mingyu claimed.

Not for what they both thought.

“Please don’t,” he whispered, trying his best to push him away but he was paralyzed. His limbs were heavy, weighing him down; his mind was clouded, murky, _scared_ in the face of Mingyu’s love.

If it could even be called that.

Mingyu did not listen; he tried to soothe with gentle words and soft kisses trailing along the insides of his thighs. But there was nothing soothing about his gaze. There was nothing loving in his touch. It was possession, it was selfish, it was obsession.

He intended to take what he thought was his, whether Jeonghan wanted it or not.

Because he had given in before.

“Don’t,” Jeonghan tried again, hating the desperate tinge to his voice. But it matched the beating of his heart. A heart that did not beat for Mingyu.

“Relax, my love,” Mingyu whispered, moving up along his body with predatory grace, spreading his legs with ice in his eyes. “Be still.”

But he could not. He would not.

Jeonghan wrenched his wrists from Mingyu’s grasp, shoving at him with all the strength he could muster. Freeing himself, he slipped off the bed on shaking legs that struggled to hold him up -

“Where are you going, angel?”

He sounded angry.

Jeonghan blinked back tears as he forced himself to turn around, as he forced himself to face Mingyu’s ire. “I’m - I - I don’t - “

“Where, my love? Back to _him?”_

Him. Him? Who him? Seungcheol? Thoughts failed in his panicking mind, words died on his heavy tongue - he knew he needed to defend himself - what was there to defend? He didn’t need to explain himself -

Mingyu’s strong fingers closed around his wrist with a steel grip, and Jeonghan was too weak; he allowed Mingyu to bring him close again. To trace the new marks left on his body with his hands, his mouth.

He allowed Mingyu to pull him back down once more, into darkness that wasn’t as warm as he’d been led to believe. He wasn’t strong enough to say _no,_ to run away, to give up this love that was slowly poisoning him.

Because it was, wasn’t it?

Otherwise, why would it feel like he was losing his mind every time he even thought about Mingyu?

“He doesn’t love you truly,” Mingyu whispered into his skin, sounding as desperate as Jeonghan felt. “Not like I do, angel.”

He thought about Seungcheol, waiting in the cold for him. He thought about Seungcheol, his kind smile and gentle soul. He thought about Seungcheol, and realized that no, he didn’t love Jeonghan the way Mingyu did.

But that was _good._

“Let me go,” he said, voice breaking in the silence beneath the opera house, snuffed out as easily as a candle in the wind.

“I let you go before,” Mingyu murmured in return, pulling back to look up at him with wide, black eyes, “and I’m not making that mistake again. No. You’re _mine,_ Jeonghan.”

He choked back a sob, Mingyu’s hands sliding down his body like they knew him, and they _burned._ But not in the way they had that first time. Now it was a sadistic burn, a burn that felt as if it would match the one on Mingyu’s face: ugly and damning.

“Please,” he breathed, a hitch in his voice, hating the way his body responded to Mingyu’s selfish, craving touch. “Please let me go. I-I - _please,_ Mingyu.”

The kisses stopped. The hands stopped. And he met Mingyu’s gaze through tear-filled eyes, fear pounding in his heart, tightening his chest and throat. In his gaze, there was… there was so much and Jeonghan could not decipher any of it.

It hurt to even look at him.

“Leave then,” Mingyu whispered in a hard, rough voice, sounding so wounded.

Jeonghan’s heart ached for reasons he could not explain as he got up. His hands shook and his breathing broke with every movement as he dressed. And then he faced Mingyu. He still sat on the bed, staring at nothing; not a single word passed his lips.

Once again, Jeonghan was afraid of him. Of his angel of music.

It felt wrong, to feel such a way about a man he loved. A man who was his friend and companion; a man who coached him, inspired him.

Part of his mind argued with him, told him to stay. To talk with Mingyu. But then those dark eyes met his and the instinct to cower was almost overwhelming.

“You are mine, Jeonghan,” he whispered again. “I would do anything to keep you at my side, where you belong. And someday, you’ll understand. Someday, you’ll come back to me and mean it. Won’t you? You’ll realize that Seungcheol cannot love you the way I do. You’ll realize that you _need_ me.”

 _No,_ Jeonghan wanted to say, but it wouldn’t come.

“I will forgive you when that time comes, angel, but until then, I will not stop loving you. And I will not stop fighting for you.”

Jeonghan couldn’t stay; he couldn’t listen anymore. He turned without a word and went back the way he came.

He made it to the dressing room before it all became too much.

Mingyu’s words echoing in his mind, panic tracing his veins and filling his lungs and paralyzing his limbs, Jeonghan crumpled to the floor. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe…

He knew what Mingyu was capable of. Deep down, he knew that Mingyu had killed people before, no doubt for less than _this._ And Mingyu had hurt _him._

The hatred he held for Seungcheol was terrifying.

The things he could do to Seungcheol, the ways in which he would take revenge… The ways in which he would express his sick, sick love…

Jeonghan needed to go back - he needed to stop Mingyu from lashing out, from _harming_ -

“Jeonghan?”

Wonwoo’s voice swiftly cut through his hysteria, firm and hard and familiar, and then there were arms around him, lifting him from the ground. There were hands soothing, stroking, leading him away from the mirror, further away from Mingyu -

“Let me go!” he cried, struggling against Wonwoo’s grip. “Please, he’ll - he’ll hurt him! Wonwoo, please! I-I have to - “

“Stop.” Just like that, he was pressed against Wonwoo’s chest, breathing him in, warm and comforting in his familiarity. He was strong and logical and calm - and Jeonghan couldn’t help it.

He broke.

Wonwoo held him close in the darkness of the main dressing room, fingers slowly winding through his hair, gentle whispers touching his ears, soothing his sobs.

“Everything is okay. _You’re_ okay. And no one is going to be hurt. He won’t harm anyone, I’ll make sure of it.”

In the moment, they were words of comfort, spoken to calm Jeonghan’s hurting, aching soul.

It was not until a few months later that Jeonghan realized the weight behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))))


	9. eight: breathe you in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so excited for this au again so here, have another update!
> 
> tw: major character injury and blood.

**eight: breathe you in**

When Seungcheol arrived at the opera house the next day, he couldn’t wait to see Jeonghan. The excitement flitted through his body greater than he’d ever felt; he hadn’t been able to stop replaying the kiss in his mind all night. Truly, he knew he should’ve been embarrassed, that something as innocent as a _cheek kiss_ made him so worked up. But cheek kisses were a lot more intimate than most people thought, and he’d truly surprised himself with his own forwardness, his confidence, yesterday. Thinking back over it made him grin to himself because _I did that!_

And the way Jeonghan had smiled; the way he’d melted into it, face flushed the sweetest, lightest pink.

Precious.

Jeonghan _was_ precious. Everything about him. And Seungcheol could not wait to be near him again. Perhaps he would try holding his hand today. Not in their usual way, though. Somehow he’d have to make it more intimate. Somehow -

“Monsieur le Vicomte.”

He looked up as the doors to the opera house opened, and there stood none other than Jeon Wonwoo. Even from a mere few feet away, he seemed grim and somber as always, with an arm behind his back, and Seungcheol still did not like him. Still did not trust him, even after several months of - of nothing. Of quiet.

It was unnerving.

Just like his presence right now. It reminded him of the morning after Jeonghan disappeared, when he’d burst into the managers’ office with all the eerie calmness in the world.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, trying not to squint in the morning light. “Monsieur Jeon. Is everything all right?”

He hesitated for the briefest of moments before bringing the arm behind his back forward; in his hand he clutched a familiar white envelope. One that Seungcheol hadn’t seen since March; one he hoped he would never see again.

“I’ve been instructed to give you this,” Wonwoo said quietly, eyes downcast.

“I don’t want it,” Seungcheol snapped, feeling unable to squash the irritation rising in his throat. Or perhaps he did not _want_ to squash it. “And tell that _ghost_ of yours that if he wishes to communicate with me, he should do so in person. I would be more than willing to speak with him.”

Wonwoo sighed heavily, but still held out the letter. “Please, Monsieur,” he whispered, the sound almost lost to the soft summer breeze. “Just read it. And _heed_ it. For your own sake.”

This time it was Seungcheol’s turn to sigh but he did as told and took the letter.

With that, Wonwoo headed back inside, apparently to leave Seungcheol alone to read.

Huffing, he broke the red skull sealing - what sort of twisted, macabre person would use such a ridiculous seal? - and unfolded the piece of parchment. The writing was the same as the last; elegant script in thick, black ink. But the words were different.

If the first letter could be classified as threatening, this was… this was frightening.

Seungcheol clenched his fist, clenched his jaw as he read, anger replacing the irritation prickling at his nerves.

_Dearest Vicomte,_

_I thought I made myself perfectly clear with my note back in March, after my darling Jeonghan’s debut: you were not to see him again. I thought something so simple would be easy for even you to obey, Vicomte. Obviously, I was wrong. I was vexed, to say the least, when I saw you together yesterday. But that will be the last time; and this will be the last time I ask nicely. Jeonghan belongs with me, to me; to his angel of music. So I suggest you comply, or the repercussions will be greater than you can imagine, Vicomte._

_Your obedient servant._

Seungcheol took a deep breath, let it cleanse some of the anger roiling in his body. But it did not work as well as he might’ve wanted. How could it, when he possessed such a letter in his hands?

The _audacity_ of this man! To say such things, to make such threats, such claims? To declare that Jeonghan belonged to him? Like he was an object, a trophy, a _thing_ to possess? It made Seungcheol sick. It made him _mad,_ the sort of white-hot anger he was used to from his father. The sort of white-hot anger that could consume him if he was not careful.

The sort of white-hot anger this phantom would come to know. Even if it hurt Seungcheol.

The doors opened once more and out came little Lee Chan. But he wasn’t bright-eyed and smiling like he often was. Instead the look on his face was just as unsettling as Seungcheol felt.

Too much like that March morning.

“Where is he?” Seungcheol asked without preamble, closing the distance between them, shoes clacking on the marble staircase. “Is he okay?”

Chan shook his head, bottom lip wavering, and Seungcheol reached out to him with a sigh. Instantly the young man burrowed into him, breathing heavily, sounding so upset it broke Seungcheol’s heart.

But as much as he adored Chan, he was not Seungcheol’s focus right now.

“Did he disappear again last night?”

Chan nodded against his neck. “Wonnie found him. Said h-he was - he was really upset. Bruised up again, but not as bad as last time. I stayed up with him all night but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t cry, he didn’t - he barely moved. Seungcheol - “

“I’m right here, Channie, it’s okay.” He’d be lying if he said everything in his body wasn’t screaming at him to find Jeonghan, to comfort him. But apparently Chan needed him just the same. So he hugged him as tightly as he could. “I promise you, he’s going to be all right.”

“Someone keeps hurting him, but he won’t talk to me. And - and Wonwoo knows something but he won’t tell me what’s going on and I-I just…”

“Look at me.” Seungcheol pulled back, holding onto Chan’s shoulders, meeting his wide, frantic eyes with what he hoped was something calm and level. “Whatever it is that Jeonghan is going through, he’ll tell you if or when he’s ready. Until then, don’t push him. And Wonwoo… well, it’s not his secret to divulge, is it?”

Chan sighed heavily, swiping at his eyes with the few tears he shed. “I’m just worried.”

“I know you are, as am I.” He pushes Chan’s hair from his eyes. “But we have to trust Jeonghan, and Wonwoo. All right?”

He nodded with the gentlest of pouts, like a child, and they entered the opera house together.

If only Seungcheol could take his own advice.

Just like in March, Jeonghan rested by himself in the dancer’s dormitory, seemingly waiting for Seungcheol. Except this time there was no sweet smile of relief when he looked up and saw him. No, this time the moment their eyes met - Jeonghan started to cry.

Seungcheol couldn’t cross the room quick enough.

And then, sitting on the bed beside him, he held him as best as he could. Jeonghan felt so small and weak in his arms, shaking with each breath he took, muffling his sobs in Seungcheol’s chest. It broke every facet of his heart and soul - and he made a silent vow that he would hurt the man who made Jeonghan cry like this.

He had a pretty damn good idea who it was, too.

When Jeonghan’s tears finally subsided, Seungcheol wiped them away quietly, giving him a gentle smile Jeonghan did not return.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered instead, pulling back like Seungcheol’s touch burned him.

His thoughts turned to the letter and he wondered what this _angel_ was telling Jeonghan. If he’d gotten in his head. “Why not, Hannie?”

He shook his head, strands of long, golden hair falling into his desperate eyes, and Seungcheol wanted so badly to exorcise his demons for him; to deliver him from his torment. From the monster manipulating, afflicting him. But he couldn’t if Jeonghan wouldn’t let him. “I ca - you just can’t, Seungcheol. Okay? He’ll hurt you.”

_The repercussions will be greater than you can imagine._

Seungcheol watched as Jeonghan rose from the bed, standing on trembling, uncertain legs. And he reached out. “Hannie…”

Jeonghan recoiled, and everything inside Seungcheol seemed to deflate. “Don’t. I can’t let you get hurt.”

“I am more than capable of defending myself, Hannie,” he murmured as he climbed off the bed. And Jeonghan stayed where he was, watching him with guarded eyes and a quivering chin, as if he wrestled with his decisions, with his heart and his mind. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I can’t help it,” he whispered and the tears sprung back to his beautiful eyes. But before Seungcheol could comfort; before he could attempt to soothe, Jeonghan turned away from him. “I’m _terrified,_ Cheol. I’m - I’m…”

“It’s all right, my love.” It slipped out before he could stop it; sounding so sweet and intimate and heavy. But if Jeonghan minded, he didn’t show it. He merely melted back against Seungcheol when he wrapped his arms around him, and Seungcheol clung to him. And in that moment, he made another silent vow: that he would never, ever let Jeonghan go, as long as he lived. “He won’t hurt me, and I won’t let him hurt you either. I swear to God, Hannie. You are safe with me.”

He sniffled, resting his hands over Seungcheol’s, trembling fingers sliding between his. “I know.”

Closing his eyes, Seungcheol breathed in and felt Jeonghan breathe with him. And for a moment, they stayed like that. For one perfect, quiet moment it was just them.

Seungcheol would never get enough of those moments.

It ended rather quickly by Chan knocking on the door, saying that they needed to rehearse.

Seungcheol held Jeonghan’s hand the entire way down, offering gentle kisses when he could.

And he hoped that goddamned phantom saw every single one.

Rehearsals went about as well as Seungcheol could have expected; they were plagued almost constantly by “unexplainable happenings” that left Jeonghan more rattled than he’d ever seen. Objects dropping from the rafters, sheet music or throat sprays or props going missing during breaks. Noises - whispers, eerie laughter - echoing through the auditorium.

By the dinner break, Jeonghan was breathing far too quickly for Seungcheol’s liking, eyes flitting around in a panic; the rest of the company were almost as jittery, but in a different way. And Jihoon’s irritation at the whole thing was beginning to get to everyone.

So Seungcheol took matters into his own hands, anger and confidence creating a heady concoction in his mind that left him feeling only a tad bit arrogant as he looked up to the rafters.

The shadow he saw hardly daunted him.

“I know you’re there,” he called out, and the company’s whispers behind him ceased.

Though he heard a broken “Seungcheol” that would’ve deterred him if he wasn’t doing this for Jeonghan’s sake.

“I know you’re there,” he said again, “and I know you’ve been wanting to speak with me. Well, here’s your chance, _phantom._ Quit sending your little passive-aggressive notes and speak to me face to face. I’m waiting.”

There was no response, though the shadow moved out of his line of sight.

Seungcheol smirked to himself, and a part of him knew he needed to stop; the part of him that was unnerved by the notes and Jeonghan’s words. The _logical_ part of him, if you will. But someone had to put this man in his place. Someone needed to let him know that he was not allowed to act like this, to do the things he did. “As I thought. Now, if you don’t mind - we’re all very hard at work down here, rehearsing. With opening as close as it is, I believe it’s in your best interest to give the company the space they need to practice. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Seungcheol.”

Jeonghan’s voice, though it wavered still, was strong enough to get to him, and he turned around to find him - as well as the entire company - starting at him. But through the sea of shock and awe, Seungcheol only met one frightened gaze.

He went to Jeonghan.

“Please don’t,” he whispered around tears Seungcheol knew he wouldn’t want to shed in front of all these people. “Leave him alone, Seungcheol, please.”

Distantly he heard Wonwoo or maybe Minghao clear his throat and the crowd dispersed, returning to their rehearsal positions. But a single glance at Jihoon told Seungcheol that he could pull Jeonghan aside. So he did, down into the seats where they wouldn’t be heard.

And the moment they were away from the others, Jeonghan looked at him with sad, pleading eyes that seemed to sear his very soul. “You don’t - you don’t understand what’s going on, Cheol. You - it - “

“I understand well enough,” he murmured. “This ‘phantom’ is a man, he’s your so-called angel of music, and he thinks he owns you. And now he’s throwing fits because I’m challenging him.”

“Fits? _Fits?”_ His voice rose in pitch, a desperate sound Seungcheol hated hearing. “He’s not an infant crying because he isn’t getting his way. He’s a man, a very real, very _dangerous_ man more than capable of - of harming people - “

“Jeonghannie,” he whispered, reaching careful hands up to cup Jeonghan’s face. Their eyes met and he ached at what he saw in Jeonghan’s. “It’s going to be okay. I just… he _hurt_ you, love. You’ve disappeared twice now and when you come back you’re scared and crying and shaking and I can’t stand it. And the way he obviously thinks of you, the way he threatens me…”

He drew back with wide eyes filling with fear and Seungcheol silently cursed himself. “He _threatens_ you? Seungcheol - “

“It’s okay.” Leaning in for a forehead kiss, Seungcheol held him tightly. He let Jeonghan nuzzle into him, though he could all but feel the anger in his body still. “I promise you, it’s okay.”

Something in Jeonghan’s silence told him he did not agree.

That night, he stayed once again to help the stagehands. This time he and Hansol made a bet to see who could take certain props apart the fastest and Wonwoo simply made loud, disappointed noises in their direction.

None of it was enough to bring a smile to Jeonghan’s lips. Not even a little bit.

He stayed near Seungcheol too, hands shaking as he tried his best to help with the props. And when Seungcheol gently pulled said hands away, gently kissed them, he sat in weary silence beside them. Staring at nothing. Lost in thought.

Seungcheol did not want to leave him here.

But he walked him to the dorms like he did every night, and Jeonghan was silent. Eyes darting towards every patch of shadows along their way, searching for something hiding, something wicked. Truth be told, Seungcheol felt a little on edge himself. He blamed Jeonghan’s nerves; once he arrived home, he knew he’d feel better. He just needed to leave this place and the corporeal phantoms that haunted it.

And just like last night he left Jeonghan with a cheek kiss. But this time Jeonghan clung to him with fingers curled in his shirt; with eyes wide and fearful.

It broke his heart to go, but he did eventually.

And then on his way out, headed towards the curved staircase that would lead him back down towards the auditorium, he heard something.

Whispers.

They taunted him from the shadows, all but begging him to follow them.

And with the same sort of heady hubris he’d felt earlier, Seungcheol did.

This time of night, everyone asleep or at home, the hallways were not lit. But if Seungcheol tried, he thought he could make out a shadow. It loomed in the darkness, beckoning him without words, and he pursued it.

Just as he knew it wanted. Just as _he_ wanted, too.

Finally he would see this phantom, this man, in the flesh.

However, a few short minutes later fear began to creep its way into his heart; it sank its claws into his being and he could not let go of the thought that this was a bad idea.

The whispers had stopped, the shadow was nowhere to be seen, and yet every hair on Seungcheol’s skin seemed to stand on edge.

Up here, wherever he was in this godforsaken opera house, there was no light.

No one but him and this loathsome ‘angel.’

“It seems you did not heed my letter, dear Vicomte.”

Seungcheol breathed in sharply; his voice seemed to come from every direction, and Seungcheol felt dizzy. “So you _do_ exist.”

A disembodied chuckle, dark and warning, floated through the air. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? You’re not as stupid as I thought you were, Vicomte. Foolish, yes. But stupid… hardly. Yes, you think you have it all figured out, don’t you?”

He didn’t like how calm this _phantom_ sounded, like he had everything under control. So Seungcheol decided to take a stab at that control, no matter the cost. “They say you’re deformed. That that is why you hide in the shadows and under a mask. Why you hurt others.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” but there was an edge to his voice now. An edge that only spurred Seungcheol on.

“Has _he_ seen under that mask of yours?”

There was silence for a moment, a moment too long. “He is mine, Vicomte,” he hissed, sounding much closer than before. “And I think it’s time you learned as such.”

Something heavy and warm knocked him to the floor - fingers like icy steel wrapped around his throat - blinded by darkness and his own arrogance, Seungcheol could not move as the breath was taken from his body. He could not fight back as he was pinned beneath that shadow.

He could not scream as he felt something cold, something sharp against his cheek.

It all happened so fast and here he was, suddenly at this man’s mercy.

_The repercussions will be greater than you can imagine._

The phantom laughed darkly, menacingly, and it went straight to Seungcheol’s pounding heart.

Jeonghan awoke to chaos.

Screams, haunting and aching, echoed through the halls, making his blood run cold as ice - and then the door burst open. He clutched a shaking Chan to him as Minghao stepped inside, pale face drawn taut and illuminated by candlelight.

His sharp eyes met Jeonghan’s and suddenly he feared the worst.

“There’s been… an accident,” Minghao said quietly, haltingly. “The Vicomte…”

Jeonghan did not need to hear anymore, not with the dread sinking into his heart. He all but leapt from the bed, in nothing but his sleeping clothes, and followed the commotion as far as it went; he ignored shouts and calls for him to stay, he ignored the cries in his own mind to stop in case he couldn’t handle what he was to see.

And his mind was right.

Seungcheol lay crumpled on the floor, a pool of blood - _blood?!_ \- beneath him. And beside him sat Wonwoo, pressing what had to have been a white cloth to one side of his face, but it was now stained a dark crimson. His fingertips were as well - and his face was set so harshly.

He met Jeonghan’s gaze and tensed even more.

But Jeonghan paid him no mind; he sank to his knees next to Seungcheol and cradled his head in his lap. With shaking hands, he took over for Wonwoo and pressed the cloth against his wound. With a racing heart and a racing mind, he ran now-bloodied fingers through Seungcheol’s hair.

He was breathing.

He was alive.

That was all that mattered.

Except - the whispers.

_“It’s him,”_ they said, in a crowd around them, their voices coming from every way. _“The Phantom.”_

“Who did this?” Jeonghan asked of Wonwoo, who wiped his bloody hands on his clothes without so much as blinking an eye. No, it seemed as if he was worried about something else. Something bigger.

But he would not look at him. “The doctor’s on his way.”

A whimpering sort of sob left Jeonghan’s lips of its own accord and he glanced down at Seungcheol cradled in his arms, bleeding out onto his palms. He could not process, could not understand, could not believe this was happening. “Who _did_ this, Wonwoo?”

He merely shook his head and stood up. With a loud, clear voice he addressed the others - and then well-meaning hands were trying to pry Jeonghan away from Seungcheol. They promised to help but Jeonghan did not let them go alone. He followed where they went, taking Seungcheol to the room nearby that Wonwoo used. He took over when they set Seungcheol on the bed, still pressing that cloth to his face. And then they were alone again, with not even Wonwoo there; he murmured something about waiting for the doctor.

Jeonghan wanted to _cry._

He wanted to scold Seungcheol.

He wanted to take him far away from here.

He wanted to confront Mingyu, with all the fear and love and hopelessness in his heart right now. But Seungcheol needed him, and Jeonghan would not leave his side.

The doctor, when he arrived, worked quickly and quietly. With deft hands he tried his best to stitch the myriad of wounds on Seungcheol’s face, and Jeonghan looked on with increasing horror.

He could not get the image of Mingyu doing this out of his head; could not stop thinking about him taking a knife to Seungcheol’s face and cutting him, injuring him. And to what end? _Why?_ What would such a thing do?

It was not until the doctor finished that Jeonghan had his answer, and it made him _sick._

“He’ll survive,” he said stoically, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, eyes on an unconscious Seungcheol. “But the scars will never go away. They might soften out a bit with time but… they’ll always be there.”

Jeonghan realized that the placement of the cuts, confined solely to the right side of his face, could not be a coincidence. Not when they matched Mingyu’s own.

Not after Seungcheol’s behaviors and actions as of late.

“He needs rest to heal properly,” the doctor continued but Jeonghan did not really pay attention; he stroked Seungcheol’s hair slowly, feeling utterly weighed down. “The stitches will dissolve in a few months’ time and his bandages need to be changed as often as possible. But he’ll survive.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jeonghan saw the doctor give him a soft, sympathetic look. But he could not return it, not with the anxiety swirling in his mind. All he knew was that he needed to get Seungcheol out of here, far away from where Mingyu could hurt him.

He thanked the doctor quietly, and a few moments later Wonwoo stepped inside. Head down, eyes sad, he didn’t look at Jeonghan at all. Nor Seungcheol.

It hurt, and it scared.

“The stagehands and I can help you get him down to his carriage,” he said quietly, sounding so distant Jeonghan did not know what to make of it. “Come morning, I will inform Jihoon that you won’t be attending rehearsal for some time - at least, I assume you’ll want to care for Seungcheol at his home?”

He nodded without even needing to think; not with Seungcheol so small and pale in his arms.

“Good. Take care of him, Han.”

With that, he turned to leave, maybe to track down the other stagehands, but Jeonghan couldn’t let him. Not when he seemed so guilty. Like he knew more than he was letting on.

“You found him?” Jeonghan asked quietly, trying to make sense of the way Wonwoo refused to meet his gaze.

“I did,” he said in the same sort of soft tone. But that was all he offered.

It did not sit right with Jeonghan. “Did you see the attacker? Who did this?”

“I don’t know.” And before Jeonghan could inquire any deeper, he left.

The streets were empty when Jeonghan took him home, the horse’s hoofbeats echoing off of stone. But other than that the white stallion was quiet, obedient. And he’d recognized Jeonghan in the stables.

What a treat that had been, a bright spot in an otherwise dark day.

Truly, Jeonghan had not been expecting it, considering the horse - Ulrich, if he remembered correctly - was only a couple years old when Jeonghan came to the opera house. But Seungcheol had adored him as a child so most of the time he spent with Jeonghan was spent with Ulrich as well. Honestly, Jeonghan recalled those memories better than he thought he could; sitting with the horse in the sunny pastures between their homes, braiding his thick mane, stroking his soft, perfectly white coat. Watching how eager and attentive Seungcheol was anytime Ulrich would do anything. It made his heart hurt then, and it made it hurt now, remembering.

As they made their way home, Jeonghan was grateful for the distraction of these memories tonight. It kept his mind from wandering to Seungcheol, injured and still unconscious beside him. It kept his mind from wandering to the shadows all around them.

Seungcheol lived on an estate just outside the city limits; with just enough room for himself and a few servants. These servants helped Jeonghan without a word - he had met them all a few times over the last several months, on the occasions he would join Seungcheol for dinner here - and then they were alone again, at Jeonghan’s request, in Seungcheol’s bedroom.

They’d helped remove his bloodied clothes (Jeonghan’s too; he now wore something clean of Seungcheol’s) and a bath was to come later, when he was a little more coherent. Perhaps after a meal. Or some sleep. God knew Jeonghan needed it too; he could feel exhaustion settling in his body, in his mind. But Seungcheol needed him more than Jeonghan needed sleep.

Logically, he knew there was no real reason for him to be here. Seungcheol’s servants were kind and caring and more than capable of nursing him back to health. They’d seemed willing to do so too, all but ordering Jeonghan to get some sleep while they looked after him. And Jeonghan had a co-starring role to rehearse, even if there were no lines for him to practice. So really, he should not be here.

But how could he just abandon Seungcheol after what happened?

How could he go back to the opera house as if nothing was wrong?

How could he sleep there, knowing Mingyu was lurking about?

Sighing softly, he watched as Seungcheol stirred. Nestled in Jeonghan’s arms, laying on the uninjured side of his face, he came to. And immediately his body contorted in pain, pain Jeonghan couldn’t even begin to imagine; pain that left him groaning behind gritted teeth, clutching Jeonghan’s arm so hard he thought it would shatter.

But even if it did, Jeonghan would stay right by his side.

“Breathe, Cheollie,” he whispered, reaching with his free hand to stroke his hair back.

“Where are we?” he gasped softly.

Jeonghan looked down at him and for a moment, a single, heart wrenching moment, he looked like Mingyu. With the white bandages on the right side of his face, covering everything except his lips and eye, it reminded him of a mask. Tears sprung to his eyes but he forced them back, so he would not worry Seungcheol anymore. “We’re at your estate. You’re safe, we both are.”

He tried shaking his head, a grunt escaping his lips, and Jeonghan shushed him gently. “You’re not safe, Jeonghan,” he rasped. “H-He did this to me - the phantom. He - “

Jeonghan knew it, of course he did. It would take a rather stupid fool to not realize it. But the confirmation - learning that Mingyu was capable of this, of hurting, hurting for _him_ \- stole his breath and he swallowed back tears, reaching out to trace the purpling bruises on his throat. In the shape of fingers. “Shh, it’s all right. You’re all right, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

“Don’t leave,” he whispered, voice breaking as he took Jeonghan’s hand in his. His eyes were wide, full of so much love and fear Jeonghan ached. “You can’t go back there, please.”

“I’m not leaving you, Seungcheol,” he murmured, and he felt as if he could not get close enough to Seungcheol. That having him in his arms like this, touching him, looking at him, was not nearly what he needed to soothe the panic buzzing around his skull. “I swear, I’m staying right here with you.”

He wanted to argue that Mingyu wouldn’t hurt him, but he wasn’t so certain of that anymore.

“So, this place truly is haunted, hmm?”

Wonwoo looked up at the soft, musical voice to find Wen Junhui looking down at him, features even sharper in the candlelight around them. But it was a better sight than Seungcheol’s blood stained into the hardwood, stains Wonwoo was working diligently to clean up, lest they all be reminded when morning came.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked in lieu of a response.

Junhui raised a manicured brow with a smirk. “I am a twenty-four-year-old adult, monsieur. Perfectly capable of making decisions for myself, don’t you think?”

Wonwoo sighed and looked back down at the soft dark stains before him. Really, he didn’t want to deal with Wen Junhui’s attitude right now; wiping up blood seemed easier. “Sure.”

He expected Junhui to leave in his silence, but he didn’t. Instead he sat down across from Wonwoo and reached for one of the cleaner cloths - and promptly got to work scrubbing.

And no number of quirked eyebrows on Wonwoo’s part deterred him.

They worked in silence, thankfully, trying their damnedest to get some of these stains up. But after it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen, Junhui sat back with a heavy sigh.

“Should I be concerned that all anyone can talk about is some enraged spirit attacking your patron?” he asked with a glint in his eyes that Wonwoo didn’t like.

“You’ve obviously heard the rumors,” he responded softly, “that we are indeed… haunted.” He spoke the word haltingly, hating that he had to lie. Especially in the face of this attack, when such a rumor seemed either out of place or completely true, depending on who was asked, what one believed. “But I assure you, there is a lot more happening than people understand. You are all safe, though, if that is your concern.”

Junhui shrugged a bit, that smirk playing at his thin lips again. “Are you all right, monsieur? I’ll admit I don’t know you half as well as I should like to, but… well, you’re quiet. More than what I assume is normal for you.”

Wonwoo sighed once more, glancing down at the blood on the floor, and he knew he needed to stop this in its tracks. Whatever conceptions of him flirtatious Junhui had… well, they needed to go away. For plenty of reasons Wonwoo could name. But as he looked back up into warm, dark eyes, his face turned hot - he _blushed_ \- and for reasons he _could not_ name, the desire to open up to Junhui was strong. Something in him promised comfort.

Wonwoo blamed the attention he was receiving; the company hardly ever spared him a glance unless it was for official matters. Keeping to the sidelines, always, Wonwoo was not used to someone looking at him so kindly.

But Junhui would not understand what was happening.

Wonwoo wouldn’t even know where to begin explaining.

“I’m all right,” he murmured finally. “Just shaken up, I suppose.”

“Hmm.” Junhui gave a gentle sigh and a friendly smile as he stood up, dusting off his bedclothes. “Come see me if you ever need to talk.”

And with that, he headed back towards the dormitories and Wonwoo watched him go, a lightness in his chest that he had not felt in… quite some time.

Once the pain had subsided a decent amount, Seungcheol dismissed his servants for the night. And he allowed Jeonghan to change his bandages. He tried his best to do so, tried to keep his hands from trembling too hard, but once the soiled ones came off… he couldn’t help it. The cuts were gruesome, covering most of the right side of his face, deep in the flickering candlelight. And they reminded Jeonghan _so much_ of Mingyu.

Despite the stitched-up wounds on his face, despite the pain he must have been feeling, Seungcheol smiled and brought Jeonghan’s hands up to his mouth for soft kisses.

Even in his darkest moments, Seungcheol was nothing but comforting.

Jeonghan’s soul hurt.

“How bad is it?” Seungcheol asked softly, stroking his thumbs over Jeonghan’s knuckles.

His tone was teasing, light, but Jeonghan didn’t have it in him to reciprocate. “The doctor said it’ll scar. All of it.”

Seungcheol sighed heavily, his touch insistent on Jeonghan’s hands, but it did not soothe the way he figured Seungcheol intended. Not with the storm thundering through his very being. So he gently tugged his hands free and set to work cleaning and rebandaging his face. And for a time there was quiet; it helped to distract Jeonghan. Helped him dissociate and _pretend._

Afterwards, Jeonghan washed the blood from his hair. He washed the sweat from his body. And while Seungcheol was drying off - he insisted he could do that himself, with a soft, embarrassed grin - Jeonghan took up residence in his grand kitchen, lamps and candles all ablaze.

Even with the exhaustion pressing on his body, he refused to let it get to him. For fear of what it would bring.

The same reason why he had Seungcheol’s home as lit up as he could get it.

Shadows and solitude brought with them dark thoughts, thoughts that unsettled him and made him jump at every little noise. Thoughts that were not welcome here, in Seungcheol’s home.

So he distracted himself - always, always distracting himself - by preparing fruit. Truly, it was the only thing he could really make in a kitchen like this but Seungcheol needed to eat. As did he. So he took the fruit upstairs with him where he found Seungcheol sitting up in his bed, grimacing softly. But as soon as their eyes met, he smiled though it was pained.

“You need to eat,” Jeonghan said softly, “and then you need sleep.”

“I’ll agree to the first, but not the second. I want to talk to you,” he murmured, taking Jeonghan’s hand when he sat down next to him. “I think there’s a lot we need to discuss.”

Jeonghan sighed heavily as he set the plate down between them. “But you’re in pain.”

“So are you.”

He sat back against the headboard, staring at the window opposite them. All that greeted him was darkness.

A shiver rippled through his body.

Seungcheol asked about Mingyu, how they met. And Jeonghan told him everything he could. Resting against the headboard, nestled in Seungcheol’s arms, stroking his hair as Seungcheol placed his head on his shoulder; he talked. He recounted those early days at the opera house, brought there as instructed by his parents’ will, lonely and mourning. How badly he wanted, needed a friend. Someone to understand him. How he’d been longing for the angel of music his father promised he would send.

And then he came, like Jeonghan’s prayers had been answered.

But how was he to know that this - this angel was nothing but a man, a man with something dark and ugly poisoning his heart?

How was he supposed to know that this man, seemingly so well-meaning, had overheard Jeonghan telling the other dancers the same tales his father had told, about the Angel of Music?

How was he supposed to know that this man _lied?_

Spilling gentle tears, he told Seungcheol about the recent months. That Mingyu tried to hurt Seungkwan so _he_ could get the part. That they’d slept together and Mingyu had slapped him when he tried to take off the mask. That he’d spent so long wrestling with the thought of losing Mingyu, who meant so much to him, that he never realized he already _had._ That he went back the other night because he was so confused, everything was so _confusing,_ and he saw Mingyu for who he was.

What he was.

And Seungcheol listened quietly. Sometimes his pain became too much and Jeonghan paused to comfort him. But Seungcheol made sure to listen. He never judged, he never criticized, and when Jeonghan finished, he was gifted gentle kisses to his temple.

When Jeonghan finished, they sat in silence for a few short moments - until Seungcheol spoke. His voice was weak and failed in the quietness of his bedroom; his words were just as sad and broken.

“I’m like him now.”

“No you’re not,” Jeonghan whispered back, without hesitation, trying to focus on Seungcheol’s shuddering breath against his neck. How warm it was. How warm _he_ was.

“But I am.” He sat up, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze with dark eyes. “And that is why he did this. He knows he can’t have you so he decided to try and-and tear us apart, for the same reason. He… he…”

Countlessly, Jeonghan’s heart broke, and he tried to soothe with soft kisses, with gentle hands. “Listen to me, Seungcheol. You are nothing like him. Yes you’re scarred but… but that’s not why I’m scared of him, why I don’t want to be with him. He’s… he’s nothing like I thought he was. Nothing like he _promised_ he was. But you, my love…”

Seungcheol looked at him and tears shone in his eyes.

Jeonghan wiped them away, like Seungcheol had done for him, over and over again. _“You_ are kind and you are loving and generous and good-hearted. You are pure down to your soul. And if you think otherwise, then he has won.” With a feather-light touch, he brushed the bandages on Seungcheol’s face. Seungcheol’s eyes fluttered shut. “You are nothing like him, Seungcheol.”

“Do you truly believe that?” he whispered, sounding as worried and desperate as Jeonghan had ever heard him.

And it _hurt_ him. It hurt him worse than anything else; worse than Mingyu’s rage, worse than seeing Seungcheol bleeding out, worse than the guilt eating away at his heart. Seungcheol did not deserve to feel like this; he had done nothing wrong. And Jeonghan would’ve given his life to prove it. “Yes,” he whispered as firmly as he could. “These wounds, these scars, change nothing. As long as you don’t let them change anything.”

Through his sorrow, a gentle, teasing smile touched his lips. It warmed Jeonghan’s insides with a fondness he had never felt for another person before. “Do you think I would look good in a mask?”

Jeonghan couldn’t help it; he laughed softly. “You would look good in anything, Seungcheol. But you don’t need a mask. You have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. Do you know why?”

He shook his head.

Jeonghan scooted even closer, resting his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder, reaching up again to touch his bandages with slow, gentle fingers. “Whatever people might say about them, you received these scars for-for me. They were given to you because you protected me. Because you’re a good man. And is that anything to be ashamed of?”

“No,” he whispered with a hint of petulance, like a child. And then his voice softened once more. “Others will see. My family, the company… everyone I encounter on the street. They’ll see what he has done to me and… they’ll judge me. Condemn me the way they have done to him.”

“People are cruel, yes,” Jeonghan murmured, and he could not help it; his thoughts turned to Mingyu. He wondered what must have happened to him to make him so volatile, so angry. So quick to hate and damn. Just like those who hurt him. “But I promise you, it won’t matter, because I will be there.”

They settled into silence then, wrapped in each other’s arms. And Jeonghan felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt vulnerable and open and _scared_ but hardly in a bad way.

How could he, with Seungcheol looking at him like he hung the stars and the moon in the sky? Like he was the very meaning of life? Like he loved him.

And Jeonghan loved him too.

There was no need to whisper it, no need for words as their mouths met. And Seungcheol kissed him the way he loved; gentle and kind and slow. He held him just the same, with a soft touch that sent shivers down his spine and sparks racing beneath his skin.

When they parted, there were lights in Seungcheol’s eyes.

When they parted, Jeonghan was not afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting down to, like, the best parts of the musical and i cannot wait omg


	10. nine: one love, one lifetime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy jeonghan birthday week, day four!
> 
> tw: (very) minor character death
> 
> also!! reminder!! while involving real people, this au is a work of fiction!! which means i view said real people as simply characters, and i do not see these characters as accurate reflections of their irl counterparts. they are here simply to fill a role, to tell a story.
> 
> enjoy!

**nine: one love, one lifetime**

The morning after the Vicomte’s attack, the company pretended as if nothing had happened. They all gathered for rehearsal, Wonwoo quietly informed Jihoon, and they continued on. And Mingyu did not disrupt.

It left Wonwoo as unnerved as his violence against Seungcheol had.

They needed to talk, that much was obvious. Finding him crouched over an unconscious, wounded Seungcheol, blood dripping from the knife he held, Wonwoo had snapped. Pulled him from Seungcheol’s body and  _ yelled. _ In the middle of the sleeping opera house, right in Mingyu’s hard face. And it scared them both, because through everything they had endured together, Wonwoo had never raised his voice at Mingyu. Not once. But he had to now; Mingyu needed to know that he was  _ wrong. _

And he’d fled into the shadows almost immediately.

It was the last Wonwoo had seen of him all night; a night spent tossing and turning in his bed, unable to catch more than an hour of sleep before nightmares woke him up.

He dreamed of dark, forboding things; Seungcheol bleeding out on the floor, Mingyu’s hands dripping with blood, touching Jeonghan. Or sometimes Jeonghan was dead as well, killed by the very man who swore to love him.

It was safe to assume that Wonwoo was incredibly grateful neither of them were there for the time being. Because he could not predict Mingyu’s actions. The last time he was this enraged, where he was targeting, attacking people - he’d killed. More than once. And Wonwoo had been unable to stop him.

“Are you all right, Monsieur?”

He glanced up at the sound of a voice close to him and found Wen Junhui standing before him. Apparently they were on rehearsal break and Junhui had come straight to him, concern clear in his sharp eyes. Wonwoo cleared his throat, trying to find words. “Yes,” he murmured, and it reminded him too much of last night. But Junhui wouldn’t understand. And Wonwoo would sound insane if he tried to explain.

Junhui sighed. “I don’t like being lied to, Monsieur. So why don’t we go somewhere a little more private and talk?”

Wonwoo wanted to. Also, he didn’t. But he assumed he didn’t have much of a choice, based on the formidable look on Junhui’s face. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be anything but vague.”

“I won’t.” And with that, they headed into the empty rows of seats. Junhui took him towards the back, where the entrance doors were, and then he turned to face him, arms folded across his chest. “Do you know the Vicomte well? Is that why you’re…?”

He shook his head, leaning against the wall with a heavy sigh. “Not especially. I’m just… well, it’s alarming, what happened. And I’m close with Jeonghan, who is… obviously close with the Vicomte. So I’m worried about him. That’s all.”

Junhui gazed at him with those eyes of his; Wonwoo liked the way he looked. The way he held himself, with equal parts confidence and softness. It was a mix he’d never found in another person before, but it seemed to fit him so perfectly. “Ghosts can’t harm the way the Vicomte was hurt.”

“Trust me,” Wonwoo sighed, “ghosts can harm in many ways. Sometimes in ways we cannot imagine or comprehend.”

Junhui smirked. “Are you a medium in addition to chief stagehand, Monsieur Jeon?”

Was that what he was, for dealing with Mingyu? He had to admit the thought brought a smile to his lips, and it made Junhui smile too. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” Glancing back at the stage, he saw Jihoon gathering up the company, and Wonwoo sighed again. “Let’s head back, hmm? Before Monsieur Lee throws a fit?”

Junhui laughed softly, and it chimed through the air. “Does he do that often?”

“More than you’d think,” Wonwoo said, and in that moment he felt lighter than he had in a while.

He wanted to cling to it, wanted to make Wen Junhui laugh again and again, because it made his heart soar in a way it never had before.

Jeonghan returned to the opera house a week later, despite Seungcheol’s best protests. Really, they were protests that fell on deaf ears because the morning after his attack, Jeonghan was both aching to stay with him and aching to return, to rehearse, to be with his company.

But when he came back he was greeted with whispers, with judging eyes and passing glances. It all left a bitter taste in his mouth. And he couldn’t figure out  _ why _ they were gossiping about him, condemning him. Was it because he’d slept at Seungcheol’s estate for a few nights? Was it because they’d caught onto the anxious conversation he and Seungcheol had had, after he’d antagonized Mingyu during rehearsal? Did they all  _ know _ and Jeonghan was just a fool?

However with only a few weeks till opening they did nothing but rehearse, so no conversations were had. No one asked him about Seungcheol; no one said a word about any phantom or any strange occurrences.

(It was almost as if the entire affair had scared them all into silence. Jeonghan didn’t blame them. And he was grateful for it. The more he could ignore it, the easier his days became.)

And then after rehearsals, Jeonghan would return to Seungcheol’s estate. He ate dinner there, he tended to Seungcheol (who grew stronger day by day; never greeting Jeonghan with anything less than a kiss and a sweet smile, even if his pain was awful), and slept there, wrapped in strong, warm arms.

But he still didn’t feel _ safe. _

Once again, Mingyu ignored their rehearsals. Either he had gotten what he wanted or he was so upset he refused to show his face, as it were. Jeonghan couldn’t help hoping for the former; he didn’t want anyone else to be hurt. But something in the back of his mind told him that the worst was yet to come.

It kept him up at night, soothed only by Seungcheol’s slow, deep breaths, even as he looked to the shadows in fear and comfort.

It left him unnerved and jumpy during rehearsals, longing for Seungcheol’s presence because not even Chan or Wonwoo could calm him down; not even an increasingly sympathetic Boo Seungkwan or a surprisingly caring Wen Junhui.

It left him nauseated and almost too sick to go on, opening night; facing himself in the mirror as his stage makeup was applied. Trying not to focus on how wide his eyes were, how his hands shook.

The last time Mingyu had disappeared for so long, Seungcheol ended up wounded. And for what? Because he’d confronted him? Because he put his arm around Jeonghan?

What would happen now, Jeonghan wondered, fidgeting restlessly as his makeup was done. Now that he was spending nights with Seungcheol; now that they would be debuting  _ Il Muto _ without Mingyu’s parameters, who would be punished? And then a voice nagged in the back of his mind, telling him that he should be grateful he played the silent role after all, since he’d gone without Mingyu’s tutelage for so long now his voice was nowhere near that of Boo Seungkwan’s, as if it had been to begin with. Any starring role he claimed now would be a disaster.

The voice sounded so much like Mingyu it  _ hurt, _ for reasons Jeonghan could not name.

But he tried his best to push it aside with a slow, deep breath. He had a show to put on, silent role or not.

Whether Mingyu would be there or not. Truly, he didn’t know whether he  _ wanted _ him there or not, and the fact that he wrestled still with the way he felt about Mingyu only added to the storm thundering through his head, and his heart.

Seungcheol returned to the opera house for opening night, a few weeks after his attack.

He stepped out of his carriage with his head held high. He joined the throngs of the similarly wealthy with his shoulders thrown back, decidedly ignoring gossip he knew was about him. He met Seokmin and Soonyoung with a gentle smile at the grand staircase, trying not to follow the way their eyes kept straying to the right side of his face.

Like Jeonghan said he ought to be, Seungcheol was maskless. His stitches had dissolved by now and his wounds were nothing but scars.

Damning scars.

“It’s so good to see you, Vicomte!” Seokmin exclaimed as he pulled him into a hug, sounding a bit  _ too _ relieved. As if he was trying to cover up his interest, his curiosity. His eyes still wandered.

Soonyoung hugged him as well, a soft look on his usually tired face. “I think you’ll be very pleased with tonight’s performance, monsieur. Rehearsals have been coming along rather nicely - Jeonghan has been  _ shining _ in his part, really.“

He had to admit, his heart hurt in the sweetest way at the mere mention of his beloved. And he longed to see him on the stage tonight, even if his role was silent. He’d be just as stunning as he had the night of his debut, Seungcheol was sure of it.

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy myself,” he said softly to Soonyoung, who looked contented at his response.

And then Seokmin cleared his throat, a worried sort of look passing over his face.

Anxiety immediately broke into Seungcheol’s thoughts.

“S-so um,” Seokmin said quietly, trying and failing to get Soonyoung to speak instead, with pointed glances that simply left the other man staring back blankly. “It would seem that the only box open tonight is… is box five.”

Like a failing music box, eerie, lilting, Wonwoo’s voice flitted through his head, haunting his very being with threats unspoken.

_ “He plans to watch the performance from his usual box five, which will be kept empty for him.” _

Seungcheol knew he should’ve suggested they pick a seat on the floor then, with most of the rest of the audience. He knew he should’ve been afraid - somewhere, in the back of his mind, he registered his scars aching - but he wasn’t.

Enough was enough.

This man needed to stop.

“Let’s take our seat then, hmm?” Seungcheol said, to Seokmin’s apparent terror. “The show is about to start.”

The performance opened to rousing applause and graceful laughter that echoed throughout the theater at any given moment. Seungcheol sat in awe, watching this work - that he witnessed from its earliest moments - come to life before his eyes. It was perfectly, impeccably acted, from Boo Seungkwan as the lead to even the smallest roles performed by the chorus. Seungcheol found himself thoroughly engaged - any phantom pain was gone, especially in Jeonghan’s presence.

He might have been silent, but he played it well. Every facial expression, every wave of his hand, every choreographed move Seungcheol himself almost knew by heart - he was exquisite. Utterly beautiful.

If Seungcheol wasn’t already in love, he would have certainly fallen for Jeonghan that night.

Though a part of him was a little… ruffled at the fact that Jeonghan  _ had _ no speaking lines; that this role was as comedic as his debut had been somber, rife with bawdy humor that really did not suit him. Yet he performed it just as effortlessly, with a light in his eyes Seungcheol could see even from the box. Jeonghan was enjoying this, was enjoying himself, and for a moment Seungcheol was gifted with memories of years before. Jeonghan dancing around his parents’ parlor, giggling in between perfect notes, nothing but joy on his young face. He looked like that now, smirking as he played the role of flirty seductor, and Seungcheol loved it.

He would’ve given anything to allow Jeonghan to hold onto that joy, that happiness, those moments of freedom for as long as he could.

Then, in an instant, in the middle of a scene in the first act, that very light left Jeonghan’s gaze - and a voice rang out, booming from the rafters.

A voice Seungcheol could not shake from his dreams no matter how hard he tried; a voice that haunted him in a way he would never, ever tell Jeonghan.

_ “He is mine, Vicomte. And I think it’s time you learned as such.” _

Seungcheol had replayed that moment countless times over the weeks; he knew that voice as well as he knew Jeonghan’s.

“Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept empty?” it asked now, sending a jolt of fear straight to Seungcheol’s heart.

Down below, in his peripheral, Seungcheol could make out the other audience members looking about, trying to find the source of the disembodied bellow. Beside him, Soonyoung and Seokmin whispered words he could not make out over the pounding in his heart, but the words sounded strained. Afraid.

And on the stage, Jeonghan fell to his knees. His face crumpled in horror, despair, eyes squeezed shut as if that would block phantom out of his mind. Or keep Mingyu from seeing him.

It broke Seungcheol’s heart and he jumped to his feet on instinct, ignoring Seokmin and Soonyoung’s distressed inquiries.

Truly, there was not much he could do from here; not much he could do if Mingyu continued to stick to the shadows. But just seeing Jeonghan like that, hopeless,  _ helpless _ onstage - seeing the confusion and concern in the company’s eyes - hearing the fearful murmurs going up among the audience -

Knowing Mingyu was there. That he was watching. That Jeonghan was not safe if Mingyu was near.

Onstage, Seungkwan approached slowly, softly, like Jeonghan was a stray kitten. There was nothing but worry in his gaze and he reached out a hand to help him up. Jeonghan took it, his own shaking, and wide, full eyes flitting up to the rafters.

Just as Seungkwan quietly asked Jihoon to start the music up again please, Jeonghan dashed from the stage.

His mad footsteps echoed through the auditorium.

Seungcheol didn’t even need to think; he acted on impulse, visceral and natural, and left the box. Everything in him called out for Jeonghan, to protect him. And there was no fear. No, he was not afraid of Mingyu, even if he had every reason to be. Even if he  _ should’ve _ been.

He would do anything for Jeonghan if it meant keeping him safe. Including risking his own life.

As he headed backstage, he vaguely heard Seokmin and Soonyoung making some sort of harried announcement, something about Lee Chan taking over for Jeonghan after a brief intermission. And then the music accompanying act three’s ballet started up. It scored Seungcheol’s journey to backstage with a light and airy tone that couldn’t be farther from the way he felt. It was wrong, out of place, mocking. Especially when he saw the state Jeonghan was in.

He sat on the floor, head in his hands, pins ripped from his hair, and his sobs echoed between the walls. But no one touched him. No one approached him. No dancers, no stagehands, no chorus members. They all stayed where they were, exchanging worried looks, and watched Jeonghan fall apart.

Seungcheol swallowed the desire to go up onto the rafters and chase Mingyu down, and instead stepped towards Jeonghan.

“Hannie,” he whispered, like there was no one else around.

And Jeonghan looked up with red eyes, tear tracks staining his makeup-dusted cheeks, golden hair frazzled and mussed. He looked at him with desperation tinging his features, with fear burrowing in his mind like a parasite, and Seungcheol couldn’t stand it.

He took Jeonghan into his arms and held him as tightly as he could. And words he hoped were comforting tumbled from his lips. Like instinct, they fell; whispers swearing it would be okay, that he was safe, that Seungcheol would protect him. But he couldn’t tell if they were getting through to Jeonghan, not with how violently he trembled in Seungcheol’s arms, how hard he gripped the lapels of his coat.

In that moment, he swore he would never let Mingyu hurt another soul.

He swore he would make Mingyu pay for his sins.

And then commotion caught his attention; the company members backstage with them gathered near the stage entrance, eyes up.

“I think someone’s up there with Taewoo,” one of them managed, as the ballet went on a mere few feet away. Like nothing was amiss. “On the - the rafters.”

“It’s him,” someone else said, holding tight to her companions. “The  _ Phantom.” _

Jeonghan tensed in Seungcheol’s arms, lifting his head to follow their gaze, even as Seungcheol tried to call his focus back, to no avail. “No,” he gasped out. “N-no - get him down from there - someone -  _ please _ \- “

But it was too late.

Before the sold out, unsuspecting audience - at the hands of a-a  _ monster; _ the same hands that had attempted to kill Seungcheol weeks before - Taewoo’s body dropped from the rafters.

Spared from the stage floor by a noose.

Screams cut through the ballet, piercing from every direction. The dancers onstage clung to each other. The company members watching backstage raced to get away. Soonyoung called for the audience to stay where they were. Seokmin said it was an accident. And throughout it all, dark, menacing laughter echoed. High above them, from the rafters, Mingyu  _ laughed. _

In the commotion, Seungcheol held close to Jeonghan.

Heart pounding, blood cold, head swimming, he did not let Jeonghan go.

And Jeonghan could not take his eyes off of Taewoo’s limp form, dangling from the rafters, even as Seungcheol tried to press him against his shoulder.

“We need to leave,” he whispered in Jeonghan’s ear, hating the way Jeonghan shook in his arms, hating the chaos that erupted around them. It threatened to swallow them whole and Jeonghan needed to be away from here. “Love, we’re not safe. Please, we need to go.”

He shook his head, holding Seungcheol’s forearms so hard he knew he’d bruise, eyes full of tears as he watched some of the other stagehands cut Taewoo’s corpse from the rope suspending it. By now the stage curtains were closed but Seungcheol could still make out the audience’s horror, meeting his ears in the form of cries and heavy murmurs. Just like Jeonghan was gasping for breath in his arms. “He… He…”

“I know,” Seungcheol said and, tearing his arms from his grip, he took Jeonghan’s face in his hands and forced him to look at him with as much love and gentleness as he could muster. God, Jeonghan was broken. Dread spilling from his eyes, wetting his cheeks, he looked so young and afraid. “Sweetheart, I know. Which is why we need to leave.”

For a moment Jeonghan’s gaze was blank with fear. He looked like a child in Seungcheol’s grasp, afraid for his life in a way Seungcheol wished he never had to be. In a way Seungcheol would  _ hurt _ to get rid of. And then he seemed to return to himself. Drying his eyes, he pulled back and reached for Seungcheol’s hand with a tight grip, like if they parted he would be lost. And he led him away from this chaos.

Seungcheol followed. He always would.

Jeonghan moved them through the opera house as quickly as they could, ignoring everything else around them. Really, the logical part of Seungcheol knew they shouldn’t leave; Jeonghan needed to stay with his company - and perhaps solitude was just what Mingyu wanted from them - but he could not handle being around all those people right now. Neither could Jeonghan.

He brought him to the roof, empty and warm in the summer night, and only then did he break his grasp on Seungcheol’s hand.

They were alone now, but Seungcheol still could not shake the fear that they were being watched.

“I could see him,” Jeonghan whispered, and Seungcheol turned towards him. But Jeonghan faced away from him, looking out over the streets below, resting a hand on one of the stone statues that took residence up there. Back taut, shoulders shaking, he looked as if he would fracture under everything. “I could see him up in the rafters, when - when he first appeared. I-I haven’t seen him in  _ months - “ _

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol said, trying to break through the fog in his mind. Trying to force the phantom from his thoughts.

And then, soft as the breeze, there was a whisper. A whisper that sounded so much like  _ his, _ breathing Jeonghan’s name as if he had any right. It could’ve been Seungcheol’s thoughts playing tricks on him but -

Jeonghan turned towards him, lower lip trembling, wide eyes filling with fresh tears. “Did you hear that?”

And Seungcheol went to him. Pulled him so close until there was no space between them, until there was nothing that could possibly pull them apart. It still didn’t feel like enough. “It’s all right,” he whispered, wiping Jeonghan’s tears as they came. “Love, it’s all right. I’m here; you don’t need to be afraid.”

“But I  _ am,” _ he breathed, some stray tears gathering in the dip above his upper lip and Seungcheol kissed them away. “He  _ killed _ someone. He’s killed before - he’ll kill again… he tried to kill  _ you. _ I-I - what if I’m next? What if he tries - “

“Jeonghan,” and he attempted to keep his voice soft. “I won’t let him touch you, I swear. You are safe with me.”

Again, he clung to Seungcheol with a firm desperation that only hurt his soul. And it matched the hopeless look in his eyes. “Do you mean that?”

Words ensnared and trapped by the lump in his throat, Seungcheol responded with a kiss. It was harder than the ones meant to catch his tears, tinged with sorrow, with fear, because Seungcheol was as undone as he knew Jeonghan was. Unraveled, stripped bare and vulnerable, at the mercy of the man in his arms because right now, it was them against the world. It was them against a force darker than they’d ever known; darker than death, with the power to tear them apart forever if they let it.

Seungcheol would die before he let Jeonghan be taken from him again.

“Yes,” he whispered breathlessly as they broke the kiss. “Of course I mean it.”

“Don’t leave me,” Jeonghan murmured, fingers curled in his hair, breath warm as the summer night touching his cheeks. “That’s - that’s all I want from you, Seungcheol, all I’ll ask of you. Please - Seungcheol - “

He shook his head, and Jeonghan’s words broke his heart. “I won’t. I promise, I won’t. I’ll stay by your side as long as you’ll let me, my love. As long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever,” Jeonghan swore, eyes wet with tears and love and all the sorrow in the world.

“Forever,” Seungcheol whispered, his heart so full it felt as if it was sinking, bursting. “I mean it, Jeonghan. I-I only want you for the rest of my life. I want to share everything with you; I want to share this life with you.” A smile crossed his lips then, feeling so out of place in this moment of darkness, this moment of terror, and yet so right. But he couldn’t help it; he couldn’t make sense of the storm of emotions inside of him. All he knew was that it was physically impossible for him to live without Jeonghan anymore “I want to fall asleep next to you every night of my life - I want to wake up next to you each morning. I want this life with you, Jeonghan. And you never have to be afraid. You’ll never have to worry because I will always be there.”

Jeonghan breathed in and out, their foreheads touching as he leaned in. “Seungcheol…”

“Anywhere you go,” Seungcheol whispered, holding Jeonghan’s face in his hands, stroking his cheeks with reverent thumbs, “let me go, too. That’s all I ask of you, my love.”

They kissed once more, another promise of their love, and upon breaking it Jeonghan met his gaze. “Take me away from here,” he whispered. “I ca - I can’t go back tonight. I can’t  _ be  _ here anymore. Not with him so close by.” He breathed shakily, eyes fluttering shut. “I want to be  _ free, _ Seungcheol. Free of this fear, of - of his control, of this darkness.”

“You will be, I swear it.” He brushed a kiss to Jeonghan’s forehead and gently pressed him against his shoulder, trying to soothe the knots in his back with slow, firm hands. It was all he felt able to do;  _ touch. _ As if he stopped, Jeonghan might’ve slipped through his fingers, lost to him in the whisper of the breeze. “I will do anything to keep you safe; he won’t touch you again, love.”

Jeonghan lifted his head and smiled slightly, eyes shining in the warm, summer night. And in that moment, he looked as if he had that night all those months ago, dazzling and happy beneath the force of his debut. He looked like the Jeonghan Seungcheol knew. Not this broken shell of a man, jumping at shadows. “I don’t deserve you, Seungcheol.”

“Yes you do,” he breathed against his lips. “Hannie, you deserve everything good and kind and loving in this world.”

Shaking hands finding his, Jeonghan kissed the corner of his mouth. And slowly, adoringly, his lips found the edges of Seungcheol’s scars. He kissed those too, tracing his cheek with soft breaths that made Seungcheol shiver. “Say you love me, Seungcheol.”

“You know I do,” he whispered. “With everything I have.”

They stayed a moment, in their embrace, breathing the other in; Seungcheol tried to memorize what it felt like to hold love in his arms, in his heart. And then Jeonghan pulled away, tugging at his hands with a gentle desperation as he silently begged him to come along, to follow.

Seungcheol did, just as he promised he would.

_ No. _

No no no no no -

_ This can’t be happening - _

Watching them go, Mingyu stepped out from behind one of the stone statues and he let out a noise - a scream, a cry - that seemed to pierce the heavens with the very force of it. Watching them go, anger pulsed through his veins, through his broken heart, and he could not  _ believe _ what was happening.

Jeonghan - his love, his angel - was scared of him?

He was choosing Seungcheol over him?

After all Mingyu had  _ done _ for him? Injuring countless dancers over the years so Jeonghan could move up in the chorus? Scaring Boo Seungkwan out of a lead? Scarring up the Vicomte, to prove he wasn’t worthy of a love such as Jeonghan’s? And tonight - appearing in the rafters to have a little fun with the managers, try and frighten them into giving Jeonghan the starring role he deserved?

But he’d frightened Jeonghan instead. Pushed him straight into Choi Seungcheol’s arms.

If it hadn’t been for that damned stagehand trying to stop him - he would’ve gotten to Jeonghan first. Would’ve taken him far from here himself. Far from judging eyes and damned Vicomtes. Somewhere they could be alone and Jeonghan could finally,  _ finally _ allow himself to love him.

Because that was it, wasn’t it? He was just scared of loving someone like him. Mingyu could understand that. He knew his love was intense; only because it ran so  _ deep. _ But Mingyu could be patient. He could  _ wait. _

Just like he’d been waiting for years.

Jeonghan would be his someday. His and no one else’s. And he’d see. Yes, eventually he would see that there was nothing scary about Mingyu. That he was hardly the antithesis to the darling, perfect Vicomte he treasured so much. Seungcheol, who vowed to do  _ anything _ to keep him safe, to prove his love. How was that any different from Mingyu, hurting and manipulating and killing to give Jeonghan everything he deserved? Both of them scarred, both of them completely, thoroughly in love; both of them willing to do whatever it took for their beloved - they were the same now. And Mingyu would make him see that.

Jeonghan would be his, no matter what. The way it was always supposed to be. Or he and Seungcheol would suffer the consequences.

He and Seungcheol would wish they had never betrayed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mingyu 😡😡😡


	11. ten: engraved in my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts, ptsd, anxiety, dealing with trauma, etc. it gets a little dark.
> 
> enjoy! <3

**ten: engraved in my heart**

“Love? Wake up, Hannie. We’re almost there.”

Seungcheol’s voice came to him like a dream, rousing him from his rest in the sweetest way, and Jeonghan opened his eyes with a gentle sigh. He was greeted with the sight of the countryside through which they traveled, still sleepy in the morning sun. Nothing but _green_ for miles; no buildings, no cobblestone streets, no people. The smell of rain long since past sticking to the trees, hanging in the chill in the air; winter flowers blooming and opening, their sweet scents touching Jeonghan’s nose. It all was reminiscent of an easier time that seemed so long ago, wrapped in the foggy tendrils of a distant memory. Cuddled up next to Seungcheol in a coach, giggling through the games they played together to pass the time. Running around the grounds of the lake house once they arrived and falling asleep in each other’s arms at night.

It made him smile now and he pressed against his fiancé, snuggling into the warmth and strength of him. Partially out of fondness, partially out of necessity. The cold was as paralyzing as it was invigorating and Jeonghan almost regretted insisting they take the carriage instead of the coach. _Almost._ The carriage, uncovered as it was, meant they could travel alone. No coachman, no footmen. And right now, Jeonghan needed that.

Seungcheol had readily agreed, ever loving, ever kind in the face of Jeonghan’s apprehension.

Even if it meant they had to pack a few extra blankets.

“How long was I sleeping?” Jeonghan asked softly, giving into the urge to close his eyes once more, head lolling of its own accord against Seungcheol’s shoulder.

But Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind; there was a gentle, consecutive pressure on the top of his head. Kisses. “A couple hours, I think.” He shifted against Jeonghan’s body, holding the reins in one hand. The other rested on Jeonghan’s waist, an arm wrapped around him. “But it’s all right, you needed it. I only woke you because we’re just about here.”

Jeonghan opened his eyes once more and the familiarity of everything tugged at his heartstrings in a nostalgic way. The forestry became denser as they approached the lake house, all but shielding it from view. Flowered, leafed vines curled their way along the outer walls and the stone benches that sat outside; droplets of rain fell from the branches around them; and Ulrich’s hoofbeats were muted as they hit dewy grass and soft soil now, instead of hardened dirt.

“It’s just as I remember it,” Jeonghan whispered, sitting up as Seungcheol maneuvered them through to the carriage house.

The lake came into view then, seemingly stretching for miles between the emerald trees that loomed along its banks, glittering beneath the still-rising sun. In the summer months they spent here as children, he and Seungcheol would swim in this same lake until they shivered beneath wrinkled skin. Morning till night. They’d play around and splash each other without a single care in the world.

Sometimes, more often than not, Jeonghan longed to return to those days. When he was scared of nothing. When the world seemed bigger than it really was, so much to do and explore. And he’d done it all with Seungcheol at his side, clutching to his hand as Jeonghan brought them to the edges of their world and back again.

Seungcheol sighed softly as he stopped Ulrich just outside the closed carriage house doors. “I haven’t been here since you left,” he whispered. “It never felt the same, coming here without you, without your parents.”

Jeonghan smiled at him, at the wistful ache in his voice, and kissed his cheek. “I’m here now.”

“I’m so happy you are,” Seungcheol murmured, turning to press a kiss against his lips.

But before Jeonghan could deepen it, Seungcheol was out of the carriage. He opened the doors to guide Ulrich inside and -

Jeonghan’s blood turned to ice the moment he saw the other carriage, far enough to the one side to make room for one more. It was a simple design, not one he recognized, and that simple fact only added to the fear closing in on his heart, his lungs, his mind.

“Jeonghan.”

Seungcheol was at his side again, hands on his arm, searching to soothe. “Love, it’s just the priest. He’s meeting us here, remember? My love, it’s okay. Look at me, please.”

Jeonghan tore his eyes away from the offending carriage and met Seungcheol’s calm, albeit worried, gaze. He sought Jeonghan’s gloved hands and squeezed slowly, gently. “It’s… it’s the priest?”

“Yes, darling,” he murmured. “And he’s not staying long. Just to wed us and then he’ll be on his way again.”

He nodded gradually, as Seungcheol’s words set in. And once they did, the shame followed rather quickly. It brought tears to his eyes as the fear faded, closing up his throat with a heavy pressure, a heavy lump. _Of course_ it was the priest; only a small handful of people knew they were here and none of _them_ even knew where this lake house was. Of course it was the priest, of course. Jeonghan should’ve known - he did, Seungcheol had told him - but he was too weak to remember. Too terrified of shadows to - to -

“Sweetheart, don’t cry,” Seungcheol whispered, breaking into his thoughts the way he was so good at. “There’s no reason for it, I promise.” His voice was gentle, and so was his touch as he wiped the tears from Jeonghan’s cheek. Tears he never meant to shed, no he never did, but they came nonetheless. Always.

Because Jeonghan was weak.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to face Seungcheol. “I’m s - I’m sorry - “

“Hannie…” And just like that, he was lifted from the bench by strong hands. Strong hands that would always catch him, that would always be there for him. Strong hands that Jeonghan trusted, that he kissed and held. They pressed him against Seungcheol’s body and Jeonghan wrapped his arms around him, burrowing into the comfort he provided. The comfort that he just _was,_ without even trying.

“I’m sorry,” Jeonghan whispered again. “I’m - I’m trying, love, I promise but I - “

Seungcheol shushed him gently. “Stop, please. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He sighed beside Jeonghan’s ear, fingers curling in his hair. “It’s only been six months, you’re allowed to be scared still.”

Six months.

An involuntary shiver rippled through Jeonghan’s body and Seungcheol pressed him closer. Neither of them spoke a word, just basking in each other’s presence. And it wasn’t until Ulrich signaled his irritation with a soft whinny that they pulled away with sheepish smiles.

Jeonghan unpacked the luggage they had brought while Seungcheol set to unhooking and untacking Ulrich. With hands that shook a little more than Jeonghan liked, he carried the bags inside the house.

It was the same in here too, relatively untouched as far as he could remember. So many memories touched his mind in an instant, fluttering around too quickly to grasp, and it brought tears to his eyes once more. But these were happy tears, tears that Seungcheol wiped away too when he stepped inside. And Jeonghan smiled at him as he did, laughing softly at his own melodramatics.

It was a moment without unease, without anxiety, broken only by the quiet presence of the priest.

“Monsieur le Vicomte?” he called in a gentle voice.

Jeonghan still recoiled.

Seungcheol pulled away after a forehead kiss to introduce the man that would be wedding them. And Jeonghan responded as cordially as he could, wanting nothing more than to dash to the nearest covered spot, like a scared cat. But the priest was a kind, older man, one who apparently knew Seungcheol well enough to laugh with him. He had a friendly air about him and he reminded Jeonghan of Seokmin, actually. Broad smile, shining eyes, gentle features.

An aching sort of sadness suddenly gnawed at his heart as he thought about Seokmin, about the opera house. About his friends. And hardly for the first time since they decided to marry here, far from prying eyes, Jeonghan wished their loved ones could be with them. It was absolutely something they agonized over; Seungcheol of course wanted his family there on his wedding day and Jeonghan longed to see Chan’s sweet face, Soonyoung’s kind eyes, Junhui’s charming smile in that capacity - but it was for the best this way.

Jeonghan didn’t want to risk it.

“Hannie?”

He looked up at Seungcheol’s soft voice, meeting his concerned gaze. “I’m okay.”

He nodded. “Well, the Father and I have some business to go over before the ceremony; I’ll come find you when we’re ready? Unless you wanted to stay with us.”

Jeonghan knew no matter what he chose, Seungcheol would be okay with it. He would support him. But there was a part of Jeonghan that felt like perhaps Seungcheol was… tiring of this. Of the constant clinging to his side, the anxiety poisoning Jeonghan’s mind. The reassuring, the comforting, the patience. For as long as he lived Jeonghan would treasure Seungcheol if only for that; but it must’ve been exhausting.

So he plastered on a soft smile. “No, I’ll be all right. I wanted to do some exploring anyhow. See how much has changed over the years.”

“If you’re certain, darling.” He smiled too, like he had more to say but wouldn’t speak it. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Jeonghan decided to go for a walk along the shores of the lake, wrapped in as much warm clothing as he could find (and it was not his fault most of it happened to be Seungcheol’s). In the winter, the water looked black. Endless. Like if Jeonghan stepped in he would not come out.

But would that really be so bad?

He took a step back from the bank, boots sinking into wet grass, as the thought crossed his mind.

Would it be so bad?

Jeonghan supposed his answer should be _yes._ A firm, resounding yes. For if he went into the lake and did not come out, he would drown. Die. Seungcheol would be left here alone without him. As would Chan and Wonwoo and all his other friends.

But if he were dead, Jeonghan wouldn’t have to think about… about Mingyu. There would be no fear of the dark, of shadows, of night. There would be no picturing Taewoo’s lifeless body hanging from the rafters every time he went to sleep. There would be no dreaming, no nightmares of phantoms and icy grips on his heart, his throat. There would be no dread that Mingyu would find him; that he would kill him.

If Jeonghan were dead, he would be free.

Finally free.

Seungcheol would move on, would he not? He had done it once before, he could do it again. And without Jeonghan’s love, he would no longer be Mingyu’s target.

If Jeonghan were dead, Seungcheol would be free as well. Saved.

He inhaled deeply and let it out, watching as his breath turned to mist in the cold air. It would _hurt,_ drowning. Through stories told to him, he knew it was painful. Scary. Out of all the ways to die, it would be among the worst.

That, or burning. Hanging.

Tears sprung to Jeonghan’s eyes as quickly as the memory did; Taewoo looked so limp, so helpless, so _alone_ hanging from the rafters like that. How terrified he must’ve been when he died. Pinned beneath Mingyu, the life literally strangled from his body. And for what? For _Jeonghan?_ For revenge?

Jeonghan had been near inconsolable at the funeral they held for him. Enough so that Seungcheol had to escort him from the church and talk some sense into him. _“It’s not your fault,”_ he’d said over and over again, even though Jeonghan’s mind couldn’t comprehend his words at all. _“You didn’t kill him, Jeonghan. It’s not your fault.”_ How could it not be? Mingyu had killed for _him._ Killed someone innocent and undeserving because he loved Jeonghan, in his sick way.

Jeonghan was as responsible as Mingyu was; he had as much metaphorical blood on his hands as Mingyu.

He wondered, so many times, if Mingyu thought about it at all. If he regretted it. If he was haunted by it, too. He wondered if Seungcheol saw it too, whenever he closed his eyes. If the others were as disturbed by this as he was. It was a topic he did not dare broach, not when none of them truly understood. Seungcheol tried, he really did. But he could not, no matter how often Jeonghan talked about it, comprehend what it was like in Jeonghan’s head. Dealing with the guilt, the shame, the fear, the anger, the love he felt.

It was torture here, the worst sort of chaos storming inside him at any given moment. As the days went on, it became harder and harder to handle it.

He wrestled with himself on _everything_ and he knew, for better or for worse, it would kill him someday.

“Jeonghan?”

He came back to himself at the sound of Seungcheol’s voice, turning to meet his fiancé as he made his way over. The sight of him made Jeonghan’s heart swell; he was in the clothing he’d brought already. Dark pants, a dark jacket that brought out the sweet color of his eyes; his hair fell into them the way Jeonghan liked, untamed and curly. And he smiled. The moment their gazes met he smiled - wide and bright, because somehow he was completely incapable of anything softer, no matter what - and Jeonghan _ached._

Seeing Seungcheol always left his heart, his soul gnawing in this certain way. He felt simultaneously empty and satisfied; needing and needed; youthful and old as time. He felt like the world began and stopped with Seungcheol, that the only worth in this life was found in his arms.

He went to him. He left the lake behind - the lake they spent their childhood summers in, the lake that would claim Jeonghan if he let it - and held him. He let Seungcheol hold him back; he filled Jeonghan’s ear with gentle murmurs that battled the darkness in his mind. They always did, trying their damnedest to clear his head, to comfort him until there was nothing left but contentment. But Seungcheol.

They shared a kiss when they pulled away, a soft, unspoken promise that they loved each other.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see the groom before the wedding?” Jeonghan whispered, attempting a joke he figured was in poor taste.

But Seungcheol smiled nonetheless. “It definitely is so you better head inside and get dressed, Hannie. I’m not marrying you like this. You’re still in your bedclothes.”

His teasing words tore a giggle from Jeonghan’s knotted throat; it sounded choked as it all but failed in the cold air. “Are we meeting back out here?”

“The gazebo in the yard,” he murmured. “Quickly though, love. I have the feeling it might rain again soon.”

Jeonghan leaned in for another gentle kiss before he pulled away entirely to get dressed. As he headed into the house, he tried to banish those sinister thoughts from his mind. They controlled him almost constantly; but he wouldn’t let them right now. Not today.

He dressed quietly, where normally he would have filled the silent space with hums or quiet songs. And then he locked himself in the washroom to try and make sense of his appearance. Of course Seungcheol loved him for him and all that, but this was his wedding day. He didn’t want to look like an exhausted goblin.

But the reflection in the mirror scared him for a moment; it didn’t match up with the idea of himself he had in his head.

His hair was shorter than it was six months ago, finally looking presentable thanks to a visit to the barber a few weeks back; after Jeonghan had chopped off several inches with tears in his eyes one night. His vision had been so blurry; he’d nipped his fingers with the scissors a few times by accident - watched the pile of damaged, golden hair around him growing by the moment until Seungcheol had brought him back.

Always, always.

(Mingyu liked his hair long. Jeonghan couldn't stand the sight of it anymore.)

The dark circles under his eyes were biological, he could only assume, since they never seemed to go away (really, he knew it was because he never slept more than a couple nightmare-plagued hours at a time now). But the gauntness, the leanness, bruising his sharp cheekbones were not. No, that was brought on by him. By the churning in his stomach that refused to let him eat more than a few bites.

But Seungcheol would still look at him so lovingly; he would caress those cheeks with worshipping thumbs and whisper that he was so beautiful.

Jeonghan did not deserve him, in any capacity.

Once he deemed himself ready, white lace top and high-waisted black pants that Seungcheol absolutely adored him in, Jeonghan went out along the path that led to the old gazebo, the one that overlooked the lake. He shivered beneath his lack of thick clothing, tracing familiar steps. Just like everything else on this estate, the gazebo held fond memories. And now they were making more, just the two of them.

Seungcheol and the priest were there when he arrived, chatting quietly enough that Jeonghan couldn’t make out their words. But he stood by one of the pillars and waited.

The gazebo was right on the water line, the perfect view during the summer. But now a soft mist was beginning to settle over the water, brought on by the thick dark clouds overhead. It swirled before them slowly, in an ominous sort of beauty that left Jeonghan breathless.

“Jeonghan.”

Once more, his focus was seized ever so willingly by Seungcheol and the joy that surged through his body when they looked at each other was electric. It filled his heart until he thought it might burst and then Seungcheol was crossing the distance between them with quick, purposeful steps that echoed off the stone. He took Jeonghan’s face in his strong hands and kissed him slowly. Tongue sliding between his lips, their soft noises muted and swallowed by the other - it was hardly a kiss Jeonghan wanted to share in front of a priest. But he melted into it anyway.

“You’re so beautiful,” Seungcheol whispered against his mouth, fingers sliding into his combed hair. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

Eventually they pulled apart, prompted by the priest’s soft but pointed “shall we go on with the ceremony?”, and held hands as they stood across from each other. The light in Seungcheol’s eyes did not waver; he looked at Jeonghan with all the endless love in his perfect heart. Voice cracking, tears on his lashes as he read his vows. They mirrored what he spoke six months ago, into the summer breeze on the roof of the opera house. And just like that night, they brought tears to Jeonghan’s eyes now.

“I lived without you once,” he said, breaking Jeonghan’s heart with every word, “and I won’t do it again. Jeonghan, you are the best, the sweetest part of my life. I am so grateful I put money into that opera house. I am so grateful I found you again. And I… I know right now everything feels sort of… hopeless. But I am by your side through it all, my love. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. As long as you’ll have me.”

Jeonghan resisted the urge to kiss him even though it thundered through his body like the only thing he was ever sure of; instead, he spoke. Words he’d never said aloud, words he’d only thought in the moments when he was alone. Words Seungcheol needed to hear. “I’m grateful you found me too,” he whispered. “Every day you save my life, Seungcheol. You are kind and patient and more loving than I deserve. I-I know it’s not easy to love me. I’m healing, and it’s so hard. But you’re there no matter what, and I will never be able to repay you.”

“You don’t need to,” Seungcheol murmured, pulling him close. “Just love me, Jeonghan.”

_That’s all I ask of you._

They kissed when the priest told them to; Seungcheol’s lips molded against his like they were made for this, made for Jeonghan. And Seungcheol broke it with the brightest of grins, a breathless, broken laugh escaping his lips.

He never looked more beautiful.

The priest left by noon and their little corner of mortal heaven was in solitude once more. Jeonghan decided to take advantage of this; he was half-undressed by the time Seungcheol walked the priest to the carriage house and when Seungcheol returned he was filling the bathtub with hot water.

Seeing each other naked was not a novel concept at this point; they’d bathed with each other plenty of times before, and a few times they even slept bare beneath the covers, wrapped in warmth and the intimacy of their love. But that was as far as they’d gone; after what he went through with Mingyu sex was not an option for as long as Jeonghan could stand it. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Seungcheol to be gentle with him, to listen to his words and his body the way a lover should; it was that, for _weeks,_ every time he let Seungcheol’s hands wander, he thought of Mingyu.

Touching him when he didn’t want it. Trying to take from him because he’d said yes before.

But the thought of being with Seungcheol like that; the thought of his husband claiming him, being the last to love him in such a physical, visceral way pooled heat, white-hot and aching, deep within him now.

There was no room for Mingyu.

So he turned towards Seungcheol with a soft smile on his lips, not a stitch of clothing on his skin. “Want to join me?”

“Do you even have to ask?” he whispered, moving to take Jeonghan in his arms. But instead of kissing his lips he leaned down to meet his neck instead. He traced the curve of Jeonghan’s throat with slow, careful lips, hands burning through his skin as they reached his hips. “Does it make sense to take a bath before we have sex though?”

Jeonghan tried to laugh, tried to sound as casual about it as Seungcheol did, but the noise died unceremoniously in his throat as Seungcheol licked across his pulse point. “Wh-why can’t we take _two_ baths?”

“Or we could go straight to bed,” Seungcheol breathed, teeth grazing the juncture of his shoulder. “Take one bath later.”

Jeonghan couldn’t help the way Seungcheol’s touch made him shiver, how it made him light-headed and dizzy in a way not even Mingyu could. He did not want to let go of that feeling; did not want to lose this moment. “It’s noon, darling. Just let me take my two baths. We’re rich, are we not?”

Seungcheol chuckled softly against his skin and then he lifted his head, eyes shining. “Is that why you married me? For my money?”

“Nothing more,” he whispered, brushing his nose against Seungcheol’s, “and nothing less. Now take your clothes off and get in the bath with me.”

“Anything you say, beloved.”

Jeonghan helped him undress and they stepped into the bathtub together. The water was hot, a bit on the scalding side, but Jeonghan liked it. He pressed close to Seungcheol who opened his arms for him, nuzzling against his husband’s bare skin in a way that felt more intimate than it did before.

“Hannie?”

“Hmm?” Already the water was proving to be exactly what he needed; Jeonghan’s eyes were heavy as he burrowed against Seungcheol, limbs feeling like rocks under the heat.

“Darling, did you… did you mean what you said? In your vows?”

He sighed as he heard the shift in Seungcheol’s tone and he tried his best to sit up and look at him, even though his body cried out for rest. “Which part?”

He shrugged a bit. “All of it. I mean, I guess the part that worried me the most… do you really think yourself difficult to love? And that - that you owe me for the love I give you?”

Jeonghan frowned. He had no idea such words would worry Seungcheol like this, but he should’ve. The thing he loved most about Seungcheol was how perceptive he was. He could read a room, a person, as easily as a road sign. He could latch onto words and phrases and find their deeper meaning, even if there wasn’t one. “I… I suppose so, yes. But - “

Seungcheol reached out to touch his cheek and, like he was drawn to him, Jeonghan leaned in for a kiss. “Listen to me, Jeonghan,” he whispered. “You are not difficult to love. Yes, our situation is not ideal and sometimes I wish it was more ‘normal’, but every time you open up to me, every time you let me take care of you like that - I feel so much closer to you. Because I know I’m seeing parts of you no one else gets to see.” He moved closer, the water splashing softly between them, cupping the back of Jeonghan’s neck. “And you owe me nothing, Jeonghan. Absolutely nothing. The fact that you even think that…”

His silence hung heavy in the air, telling more than needed to be said.

With Mingyu, something was always expected, even before they slept together. He was Jeonghan’s “friend”, his tutor, so that meant Jeonghan was _expected_ to sacrifice his sleep. It meant Jeonghan was expected to lie to protect him. And then it was sex, because they were “in love”. And then it was sex because they’d done it before.

Always, Jeonghan felt as if he owed Mingyu. No matter what he did or said, his debt was never repaid. And Mingyu collected ravenously, like it was his right to do so.

But Seungcheol… Seungcheol expected nothing. Seungcheol wanted nothing more than what he gave.

Jeonghan sighed heavily and leaned his forehead against his husband’s. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Seungcheol.”

“And I you,” he murmured in return.

As the water cooled down, their touches heated up. Seungcheol reached between his legs as he kissed him, hands as slow and worshipping around his erection as his lips were on his skin. Jeonghan lost himself in it, holding to the edges of the tub for support. Otherwise he would’ve slid right under the water with how boneless he felt.

“I want you, love,” Seungcheol whispered near his ear, thumbing his slit lazily. Like he had all the time in the world. And here, in their own little secluded spot, it definitely felt that way.

At least, Jeonghan wanted it so.

He arched his back, a breathless moan passing his lips as Seungcheol’s touch seemed to sear his skin. And he could not find his voice, could not latch onto a single coherent thought. He was _starving,_ craving Seungcheol and his body like he depended on him for survival.

“Why don’t we dry off?” He brushed soft kisses behind Jeonghan’s ear and they only added to the heat spreading through his body. “And head to bed?”

“You - you seem incredibly confident for someone who’s never done this before,” he managed through deep, controlled breaths that were meant to calm the storm of desire swirling through him. But they hardly worked; every stroke of Seungcheol’s hand brought a new jolt of pleasure right between his legs.

Seungcheol chuckled softly, sheepishly, and it was enough of a break that Jeonghan was able to open his eyes and meet his gaze. His husband looked at him with love in his lidded eyes, biting his lip in a failing attempt to hide his smile. Truthfully, Seungcheol was utterly beautiful and Jeonghan brought him close, cupping the scarred side of his face. And with a gentle thumb, he stroked across those scars, feeling the raised skin, the way Seungcheol shuddered.

“Honestly,” he whispered, reaching up to lace his fingers with Jeonghan’s, “I’m just doing whatever feels right in the moment. Is it - do you like it? The way I touch you?”

“Of course I do,” he said quietly. “You’re my husband.”

“But if you don’t like it, you’ll tell me?”

Jeonghan nodded. “I promise.”

After another moment of holding each other like this, they pulled away to step out of the bathtub. Seungcheol dried him with a towel, kissing away the droplets on his neck and shoulders, and then they faced each other. A second, perhaps two, managed to pass before it became too much and the fact that they weren’t touching was unbearable. Their mouths met in a deep, desperate kiss that almost knocked Seungcheol back into the bathtub and then they moved, stumbling as they tried to find their way into the bedroom. But this proved difficult since neither of them was willing to pull away long enough to even breathe properly, let alone watch their steps.

This meant Seungcheol ended up pinned against a wall more than once, but Jeonghan didn’t think he minded much. Not with the way his hands strayed to Jeonghan’s backside, squeezing and molding as he sucked marks into his neck.

Finally they made it to the bed and Jeonghan pushed Seungcheol down onto the mattress, reveling in the way his husband looked at him. It sent shivers through his body, racing like embers beneath his skin, and with Seungcheol he felt powerful. He felt bold, coveted in a way he never had been before.

Mingyu loved the idea of him, wanted to lay claim to his body to fulfill some sick fantasy of his and nothing else. Mingyu wanted him selfishly.

But Seungcheol loved _him._ He loved him for him, for his heart and his mind and his mending soul. He wanted him purely, as a manifestation of their adoration for each other. Not to torment him. And Jeonghan saw it in his gaze, felt it in his hands as Seungcheol reached out, fingertips dancing across his stomach. His muscles jumped and twitched in response, insides twisting as Seungcheol’s fingers drifted lower.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are you,” and he meant it.

Seungcheol smiled so wide it crinkled his eyes, wrinkled his scars. And Jeonghan longed to kiss them, longed to show Seungcheol just how utterly perfect he was in his eyes. Longed to return the love he gave so freely, so willingly.

“How do you want to do this?” he asked softly.

Seungcheol opened his mouth as if to speak and then hesitated. And Jeonghan was almost certain he knew what failed on his tongue.

“When you… when you and-and…”

Jeonghan sighed softly, trying to push the memories away as they rose up. There was no place for them here, not when this single moment with Seungcheol was better than ten years with Mingyu. “He… was inside me. Do you want that? To be inside me?”

A blush formed on his face, painting his ears and cheeks bright red in the most endearing way. “I’ll admit that I wouldn’t know what to do. Of course you could walk me through it… I’m pretty certain I know why we’d need that oil you brought…”

“How, um, would you feel about me… inside you?”

For someone who _had_ done this before, Jeonghan was not at all confident. In fact, he felt much more nervous now than he did with Mingyu. Perhaps it was because Seungcheol was his husband, his greatest love - his only love.

His blush deepened, giving way to an embarrassed smile that made Jeonghan’s heart swell. “I want that, if you do as well.”

“I think I do,” he whispered as he kneeled on the mattress, hovering over Seungcheol’s body in a way that left him breathless and _wanting._ “Besides, we’re here for a week, hm? We can always try it other ways, too.”

“Let’s do it this way first,” Seungcheol murmured and he leaned up on his elbows, a breath away. His eyes flicked towards Jeonghan’s, seeking him out demurely through those long lashes of his and Jeonghan couldn’t take it anymore. He needed Seungcheol and he needed him now. “Touch me, Jeonghan. Please.”

Jeonghan rested one elbow on the mattress so he could wind his fingers through Seungcheol’s hair; his other hand teased its way down his abdomen. His skin was hot, burning, soft, enticing; Seungcheol was breathless beneath his fingertips, eyes fluttered closed as he arched. And then Jeonghan took hold of his cock.

The way Seungcheol whimpered his name was beautiful. It sparked a fire in his body, a fire that he knew would not die out until he explored every inch of Seungcheol and Seungcheol knew him similarly.

So Jeonghan took his time. He touched him slowly, savoring the weight of him, the warmth of him. Stroking over parts of him that made him gasp and arch and whine. Noises he’d never heard from Seungcheol before, noises he never even imagined he’d hear, came pouring out of him and Jeonghan reveled in them. Reveled in the desire surging through his own body, just from touching another. He’d never known this feeling before, never knew that pleasing someone else could feel so exquisite.

“S-stop,” Seungcheol whispered suddenly, gripping the bedsheets with white knuckles.

Jeonghan immediately pulled away as if he’d burned him, anxiety starting to pound through his body -

“You didn’t hurt me,” Seungcheol murmured, sitting up to trail kisses along his jaw, like he could see inside his head, knew exactly what he was thinking. “I don’t want to come without you, love, that's all. I’m ready. I want you.”

He wanted to argue, wanted to spend hours committing every inch of Seungcheol’s skin to memory. But they would have time for that later. Right now they needed each other. After a soft, barely there kiss, Jeonghan reluctantly left the bed to find the oil he’d brought. It glistened in the overcast light spilling in from the open windows, and it poured easily onto Jeonghan’s fingers.

“Spread your legs, darling,” he murmured, “and please tell me if I hurt you.”

He nodded quickly. “Just - please, Hannie. I want you.”

“I know.” Jeonghan took a deep breath as if he was the one being prepared and pressed his fingers against Seungcheol. He was gentle with his touch, giving slow strokes along his entrance. But he didn’t want to hurt him. It was the very last thing he wanted, he’d never done this part of it before -

“Love, please,” Seungcheol whispered, thighs trembling, voice low and husky. “I - I need you - want you inside me…”

It was a side of Seungcheol he had never seen before; he was always confident and self-assured, even on the arrogant side sometimes. But like this he was a little more meek, a little more timid. Cheeks flushed red and his cock hard and dripping on his stomach. He was open for Jeonghan - legs spread wide, absolutely vulnerable in so many ways.

Already, Jeonghan could not get enough.

He swallowed as he pressed a bit harder, the tip of one finger dipping inside before he pulled it back.

Seungcheol moaned.

Jeonghan knew what it felt like, knew how addicting it could be to be touched like this. So he took his time, slowly pushing one finger inside him. Seungcheol was hot and tight - oh so tight… “Breathe, darling,” he whispered. “Relax for me.”

He did as he was told, taking a deep breath and then letting it out slowly. And in that same moment, Jeonghan pulled his finger out.

Pushed it back in.

It only took a few more thrusts before Seungcheol was begging for more, before Jeonghan was beginning to lose his composure as well. Touching his husband like this, watching him fall apart like this… it was intimate in a way that made his very bones ache. So he added another finger, cock twitching at the way Seungcheol whimpered.

“You’ve never touched yourself like this?” Jeonghan whispered and leaned down to kiss away the sweat gathering on Seungcheol’s temple. The desire to care for him, the way Seungcheol did for him, was so strong all Jeonghan wanted to do was worship him. He didn’t love the same, as deeply, as Seungcheol did, he knew that - but he could love like this. He could shower him with affection like this, praising him in ways no one ever had before.

It was intoxicating.

“N-never. Didn’t know it would feel this good.”

Jeonghan smirked to himself before crooking his fingers, searching for that spot he knew was deep inside him -

Seungcheol cried out, hips arching off the bed - and Jeonghan swallowed his whines with a kiss. His wrist ached in this position, as he slowly thrust his fingers in and out, but it was worth it to be close to him. To touch him like this.

“It feels so good, doesn’t it?” he whispered, turning to look at his hand between Seungcheol’s legs, the soft, opaque liquid slowly pooling on his stomach, the way his thighs and his cock and his abdomen jumped and twitched… Jeonghan couldn’t help but shiver, knowing he was giving someone else so much pleasure. Knowing he made his husband come undone like this; opening up for him with all the love and trust in his heart.

“M-More,” Seungcheol breathed, tilting his head back against the pillows. “Please, it’s so - Jeonghan…”

He loved the way Seungcheol said his name, like home. It stoked the fire in his veins, desire hot and thick in his belly, and he kissed the pale expanse of Seungcheol’s throat, curling his fingers once more to stroke at that spot inside him.

Once he deemed Seungcheol ready he added a third finger, shushing him gently as he whimpered at the stretch. And he praised him with whispers stringed together, tinged with the adoration Jeonghan felt watching him. He meant everything he said, and he longed to be inside him. Longed to be connected in such a way, to be a part of Seungcheol the way Seungcheol was part of him.

So when Seungcheol turned towards him, eyes glistening, voice raw and wrecked, Jeonghan couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Darling,” he whispered against his lips, stroking along Seungcheol’s inner walls so slowly, “are you - mm, are you ready? Do you want me in you?”

He nodded, reaching out with a shaking hand to grasp at Jeonghan’s wrist. “I c-can’t, just - need you now, Hannie. Please.”

He gave into his husband’s pleading, withdrawing his fingers, and his cock twitched at the broken moan Seungcheol made in response. But before he could move back between his legs, Seungcheol was kissing him. Slow, deep kisses that made him ache. Hands all over his body, scorching his skin, and Jeonghan needed him too. He needed him like oxygen, and it gnawed at him until he felt as if he would burst.

Pulling away, he mouthed at the scars on his face. Tenderly he claimed them, adored them - just as the rest of him. “I love you,” he whispered against the corner of his lips.

“I love you, Jeonghan.”

He sat up and reached for the vial of oil on the bedside table; Seungcheol stopped him with gentle fingers wrapping around his own.

“Let me,” he murmured, eyes dark and lidded and cherishing. “Please, I want to touch you.”

Jeonghan nodded and he straddled Seungcheol’s hips quietly, watching as Seungcheol propped himself up on his elbows and uncorked the vial. He poured some into his broad palm and replaced the vial on the table before looking at Jeonghan again. With a tender hand, he reached out.

Such a simple touch, warm and slick from the oil, was enough to steal the breath from Jeonghan’s lungs the moment Seungcheol’s fingers wrapped around him. He touched him like he did in the bathtub, with slow strokes that teased every part of him. And Jeonghan _craved._ He yearned. His body called out for Seungcheol, a breathless moan torn from his throat as Seungcheol thumbed the head of his cock.

And then his touch was gone and Jeonghan wasted no time; he pushed Seungcheol’s thighs apart once more and lined himself up with his entrance.

Their eyes met and Seungcheol was desperate, a man undone.

Jeonghan felt the same.

He pushed inside him.

Seungcheol took him in so easily, like his body was made for him, and they shared a moan. Shaking, trembling, Jeonghan lowered himself down to hover over him and they kissed slowly, deeply. Giving Seungcheol all the time he needed to adjust. Truly, Jeonghan needed a few moments too; he felt as if he could not breathe. Seungcheol was everywhere around him, every shuddering breath he took, every touch beneath his fingertips, everything he saw. He was warm and tight, and Jeonghan ached.

“I-I love you,” Seungcheol managed in a strained voice. “I love you so much, Hannie.”

“And I love you,” he whispered and he would never tire of those words, as long as he lived.

He lost himself in it all; in Seungcheol and the heat of his body and the gentle noises he made; in the heady desire pulsing through him with each thrust of his hips; in the feeling of being together like this. Of knowing Seungcheol in a way no one else would. Of being one with the man he loved most in this world. They moved slowly, bodies intwined, hands searching, searing. Jeonghan belonged to him, in every way a person could belong to another. Seungcheol had all of him; his heart, his soul, his mind, his body. And Jeonghan had him in return.

Hips stuttering he reached out to grasp Seungcheol’s hands, needing him like he’d never needed someone before. Seungcheol leaned up for a barely-there kiss that was more heavy breaths and gentle whines than anything else; Jeonghan felt it in his bones. This was love, in its rawest, most visceral form. This was love and hope and light; it was euphoria, clinging to the one he was made for and holding him in his arms.

They came undone together, Seungcheol wet and warm between their bodies with a broken cry as Jeonghan spilled inside him. He felt raw, broken and put back together, spent but _alive._ For a moment there was nothing touching Jeonghan’s senses but Seungcheol. The taste of him on his tongue, the scent of him in his lungs, soft, sweaty skin against his own. And he buried himself in it, buried himself in Seungcheol’s neck as their bodies shuddered, used up in the best way. They breathed slowly, deeply, hands wandering over damp, fevered skin, lips marking what was already theirs.

And then Jeonghan lifted his head. Seungcheol’s gaze felt like coming home, like Jeonghan belonged nowhere else but right here.

“I love you,” he whispered once more, as if they were the only words he could speak, the only words that mattered.

Seungcheol kissed him slowly. “Not as much as I love you.”

“Liar,” he murmured against his lips and Seungcheol’s smile sent shivers through his body.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in each other’s arms, exploring what was newfound to them both. And after a bath and a meal Seungcheol insisted they eat, they returned to bed. Seungcheol fell asleep rather quickly, as he always did, leaving Jeonghan alone and awake.

A slave to his thoughts.

Exhaustion tinged at his bones, his muscles, his eyelids, given to him by almost countless orgasms, but he could not succumb to it. No matter what he did.

The shadows in this room loomed too greatly.

Heaving a sigh that shuddered in the chilly air, Jeonghan pressed against his husband’s warmth. He could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. That there was something else - someone else - in here with them. Anxiety gnawed at his heart, at his mind, and he wanted it to _stop._ He wanted one moment of peace. But Mingyu was as much a part of him as Seungcheol was.

He was a fool if he thought otherwise.

When sleep finally claimed him, his nightmares were haunted by white masks and icy hands and darkness. He dreamed of blood, of despair, of a noose tight around Seungcheol’s neck, of sinister laughter in his ears.

It echoed through his mind when he woke up, bathed in soft morning light, safe and sound in Seungcheol’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! <3


	12. eleven: no light, no light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh thank you guys for all your patience and love! <3
> 
> also!! reminder!! while involving real people, this au is a work of fiction!! which means i view said real people as simply characters, and i do not see these characters as accurate reflections of their irl counterparts. they are here simply to fill a role, to tell a story.

**eleven: no light, no light**

The week at the lake house went by faster than Jeonghan wanted it to; he wasn’t even really aware of the time passing, to be completely honest. Not when almost every moment was spent in each other’s arms, against the warm bedsheets. No, the week had gone in the blink of an eye, it seemed, and by the time they were supposed to leave Jeonghan was more than willing to stay. He even went as far as to tempt his husband for at least a few more hours by refusing to leave bed and get dressed that morning. With Seungcheol’s eyes sweeping over his bare skin, Jeonghan smiled demurely, spreading his legs enough to entice.

Sensuality was an interesting thing, or so he was discovering. He could use it to further his own agendas, to lure Seungcheol into doing whatever he wanted. It could be dangerous if he let it be; generally he only tended to use it when he was feeling bold. When he wanted to be closer to Seungcheol. When he wanted more. Like right now. Watching his husband’s gaze darkening, the way his hands seemed to twitch towards him…

But Seungcheol’s resolve was stronger than Jeonghan anticipated; he swallowed and gently handed Jeonghan his clothes with his eyes averted.

And so Jeonghan dressed, mind fluttering in a way it had not since their first night here; since his nightmare. They would be returning to Paris, to the city, wedded. A dangerous move, if they weren’t smart about it. Though they decided that they would keep it secret - Seungcheol already agreed - someone was bound to find out. And if one person found out… well it would only be a matter of time before someone _else_ found out, too.

In all his overthinking, in all his anxiety, Jeonghan could not predict how Mingyu would react when he discovered the marriage. Would he kill again, perhaps turning his dark, murderous eyes to Seungcheol once again? Or, God forbid, Jeonghan? Who would be put in harm’s way if the secret was revealed? Who would face his wrath?

It left Jeonghan silent on the journey home, lost in his thoughts so deeply that not even Seungcheol’s hands or kisses could bring him back. No matter how hard he tried.

Thanks to Seungcheol’s almost impeccable self-control they made it home in time to receive two visitors - and a letter.

Weariness and anxiety settling in his bones, Jeonghan was upstairs drawing a bath so he could try and relax before dinner when he heard Seungcheol call up to him. His voice was sweet enough that Jeonghan thought nothing of it; he merely wrapped himself in a robe and went downstairs.

Soonyoung and Seokmin stood in the entryway, bundled up as warm as they could be, smiles widening as they caught sight of Jeonghan.

He breathed in and slipped the ring from his left hand into one of the robe’s pockets.

Just in case.

“Jeonghan!” Seokmin cried, pushing past Soonyoung and Seungcheol to hug him. His outerwear was cold, freezing from the snow outside, but his embrace was warm and Jeonghan melted into it. Seokmin gave the kindest hugs, as if he hadn’t seen the recipient in forever; Jeonghan loved it. “How was your week away? We all missed you!”

Light shone in his eyes when he pulled back, holding Jeonghan’s upper arms with gentle hands.

This was the best part of coming home; his friends. Even if he dreaded returning to the opera house to see the rest of them.

“It was perfect,” he said softly, truthfully, catching Seungcheol’s fond gaze for a moment. “I missed you too.”

“I’m afraid this visit is strictly business,” Soonyoung said as he stepped forward, an elegant envelope glinting in the candlelight around them and it piqued Jeonghan’s interest. “We’ll have time to catch up tomorrow when you return to the opera house but for now…” He handed Jeonghan the envelope, smiling softly.

Before he opened it he knew what it was; excitement buzzed around in his skull like he hadn’t felt in years and he looked up at his managers with a smile. “Is this for the gala? The masquerade?”

Seokmin’s grin was as blinding as it always was and Jeonghan actually felt comforted, for the first time since they reached the city earlier. How beautiful friendships could be; he longed to see Chan, and Wonwoo, and Junhui. Longed to tell them all about the wedding he’d wanted to invite them to.

“Yes!” Seokmin chirped, pulling him from his thoughts. “Next Saturday night, just in time for the new year.”

Jeonghan couldn’t help it; he gasped softly and leaned against Seungcheol as he came to wrap strong arms around him; his kiss was as fond as the look on his handsome face and Jeonghan loved it. “A masquerade, Cheollie. How lovely.”

“I know,” he murmured with a smile, holding Jeonghan so close like they had no company. Marriage made him shameless and Jeonghan couldn’t get enough of it. “We’ll get to see everyone else too, hmm?”

Soonyoung smiled at them in a way that felt both affectionate and indulgent and it wasn’t long before he and Seokmin took their leave. In their newfound solitude, Jeonghan simply undid his robe right there in the entryway. This time, Seungcheol’s resolve crumbled easily and they shared the bath together.

But it wasn’t enough to purge the anxiety burning in the back of his mind.

_“We’ll get to see everyone else too.”_

Yes, and Jeonghan was excited. But Mingyu had been too quiet these last few months; retreating God knew where after he murdered Taewoo. Every other showing for _Il Muto_ had gone off without a hitch, with the roles the managers had assigned. Every night until he officially moved into Seungcheol’s residence, Jeonghan stayed up listening, waiting. Nothing.

For all they knew Mingyu was gone.

The rest of the company treated him as such; by autumn the air among the company had shifted to the point where no one seemed worried about Mingyu. It was as if he’d never been there in the first place.

But Jeonghan couldn’t let him go so easily, not when just the thought of seeing him filled him with so much fear.

Something swirling in his mind told him Mingyu would show up at the masquerade. And just like that, Jeonghan didn’t want to go anymore.

The morning of the gala, Wonwoo awoke with a vague, familiar sense of dread brewing in his head. He couldn’t put his finger on it but even as he shifted towards Junhui, pulling his warm body close, it remained. Truly, every morning was like this and burying himself in Junhui’s soft skin usually seemed to do the trick… but evidently not today.

“Is the sun up yet?” Junhui murmured against his lips, eyes still closed.

Wonwoo chuckled softly as he reached out to stroke his lover’s cheek. “What if I say no?”

He grimaced in response. “Then I’d say leave me alone and let me sleep longer.”

Wonwoo would love to, but since the sun was indeed up (spilling into his bedroom through the open window) and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something _bad_ was going to happen, he wanted Junhui awake. So he kissed him slowly, shifting their bodies so that Junhui was pinned beneath him, those elegant fingers of his tracing Wonwoo’s back. They stayed like this for a few moments, kisses gentle but deep as Wonwoo tried his best to expel the darkness from his mind.

It didn’t work.

He pulled away from Junhui with a heavy sigh, avoiding his gaze as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting there for just a moment. Whatever these thoughts were trying to tell him, they were rather insistent. Howling around inside his mind in anxious, irrational warning -

“It’s okay, love.”

But Junhui was there, touch as soft as his voice was, pressing up behind him with his chin on Wonwoo’s shoulder. He was warm and he was bright, and Wonwoo reached for the arm he wound around him, kissing the back of Junhui’s hand. He felt fatigued, weighed down. Unsure of himself - of every breath he took, of everything his eyes saw.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered even though Junhui had been telling him since October not to say it. That there was no reason for it.

He couldn’t _help_ it; with Mingyu, apologies were the way to calm him down. Even if it was something completely out of Wonwoo’s control, he’d still offer up a sorry to placate him. It became a habit. Every single undesirable trait of his, everything about him Mingyu hated, Wonwoo tried his best to repent for. And now that behavior was carrying over with Junhui.

He felt _sick._

“Tonight’s going to be fun, love,” Junhui murmured, battling his insecurity with gentle kisses pressed into his shoulder. “So whatever’s on that pretty mind of yours, don’t let it get to you. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“But what if it does?” he whispered. His eyes found the mirror that stood across the small room (a room he’d started rented a few weeks ago at Junhui’s insistence; anything to get him away from the opera house and Mingyu) and he met his own gaze.

It seemed to him that the last six months had been kind to almost everyone else. Seungkwan was back to normal, so to speak, once again cast in every lead without any sort of resistance (even going public with the not so secret relationship he’d been cultivating with Hansol over the last couple years). Chan was still finding joy in the chorus, even snatching a couple wordy roles here and there. The damned managers - who were growing less and less insufferable as time went on - even found happiness, settling into an easy routine that made them seem suited for this business after all.

And then Jeonghan.

He’d carried the brunt of Taewoo’s death, eating less and withdrawing more. Those first few weeks he’d been everyone’s source of worry, even those who had no idea _why_ Taewoo’s “accident” had him so shaken up. They just knew that Jeonghan wasn’t taking it well.

But he’d moved in with Seungcheol. He’d gotten away from Mingyu.

He’d spent a week away with his beloved, and whispers had touched Wonwoo’s ear. Whispers of marriage.

No matter his trauma, Jeonghan had managed to open up to his lover.

Something Wonwoo struggled with every day of his life.

It kept him up at night; the dark circles under his eyes seemed all but permanent now, a wonderful addition to the gauntness in his cheeks, the lethargy in his movements, the anxiety in his brain.

Six months without Mingyu had left him feeling like a dead man. Like he’d been left without a life force, without the thing that sustained him, as toxic as it had been.

“He’s gone, Wonwoo,” Junhui murmured against his skin, repeating the same line he’d come up with weeks ago. The more he said it, the more it made Wonwoo want to laugh. The more he hated hearing it.

He’d told Junhui enough to sate his curiosity; too many drinks one October night found them spilling secrets, and the truth about the phantom of the opera had flowed from his mouth as easily as wine into his glass. Junhui listened to every slurred word with startling sobriety and then… that had been it. He accepted the vague confession with as much grace as he could and maybe an hour later they ended up in bed.

(He learned Wonwoo and Mingyu grew up together but not why they left the orphanage. He learned Mingyu was poisonous but not to any specific extent. He learned that any “accidents” in the last decade were Mingyu. And he learned Mingyu wanted Jeonghan.)

Wonwoo knew he’d like to hear more.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“For now,” he said quietly. “But I know him. He doesn’t… he won’t stop fighting for what he wants. When he was six it was a family. When he was nine it was… it was revenge. When he was eighteen, it was Jeonghan. It’s _been_ Jeonghan for ten years and...”

“What about you?” Junhui asked, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Would he fight for you?”

“No,” he whispered, and admitting it felt like a weight off his shoulders - but it settled on his heart instead, and he hung his head. “Never. It… it’s never been me.”

Junhui sighed heavily and kissed his shoulder once more. “Well, I’d fight for you. I don’t care what Mingyu says or does - you’re someone worth fighting for, Wonwoo. So let’s just… try to forget about him, okay? At least for tonight. We’ll get drunk and dance and have fun.”

Something in Wonwoo soared at Junhui’s words and he shifted for a slow, soft kiss. The toxins burrowed beneath his skin, slowly vitiating him over the years, suddenly felt lighter. And maybe, just maybe, Junhui was right. That Wonwoo was worth fighting for. That he was worth being loved.

By the time Seungcheol and Jeonghan arrived that night, the gala was already in full swing. They left their coats and Seungcheol’s rapier (which he’d brought “just in case”) with men who were responsible for such items, and then they found themselves in the foyer of the opera house. All of the city’s elite had turned out; a lot of faces Jeonghan recognized from his youth greeted him and Seungcheol with wide smiles and bright, tipsy eyes hidden behind masquerade masks. His friends from the opera house were too busy with each other; seemingly taking advantage of the anonymity that came with decently concealed faces, they mingled.

Seungkwan was as vivid as he always was; this time he had Hansol on his arm in an impeccable suit that seemed so out of place with the Hansol Jeonghan knew.

But that was the difference: tonight, they could be whoever they wanted. No expectations.

Jeonghan felt lighter than he had in a while, grounded solely by Seungcheol’s arm around his waist, the wedding ring hanging off the chain around his neck. Close to his heart.

Wonwoo and Junhui caught his attention a few yards away, the latter laughing at something Wonwoo said - and Wonwoo wore a beautiful smile that suited him so well. A smile he’d only ever seen in Junhui’s presence. Then he saw Seokmin dancing with Jisoo, his lively laughter echoing throughout the atrium of the opera house, even above so many others. And near them, Soonyoung had his arm around Jihoon, already seemingly drunk if the kisses he littered along Jihoon’s neck were any indication. Tomorrow, relationships between managers and actors or composers could be called into question; but for now, they were safe in this façade.

“Jeonghan!”

He turned at the sound of Chan’s voice, as the younger boy peeled away from a group of dancers. They waved at Jeonghan and he waved back - until he was all but tackled by Chan and his strong hug. Seungcheol even pulled away to give them space and Jeonghan just giggled into Chan’s shoulder.

His heart was full and warm and he wanted to hold onto this feeling for as long as he could.

“You’re here!” Chan chirped, pulling back with his usual wide grin. His mask matched Jeonghan’s almost perfectly (on purpose) - gorgeous black lace surrounding red gems that sparkled in the light. He looked elegant and handsome and grown up, and Jeonghan couldn’t help the kiss he pressed against Chan’s forehead.

“Of course I’m here,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Chan merely grinned in response and, as if on cue, the rest of their friends made their way over. Each of them called out some form of greeting as they approached, barely audible above the hum of chatter and music, and Seungcheol pulled Jeonghan tight against his side. His grip bordered on possessive and when Jeonghan looked at him, he found investigative eyes scouring the room, the crowd.

Like he was looking for someone.

Jeonghan breathed in and out and kissed Seungcheol in front of Paris’s wealthy and elite; in front of their friends. “It’s okay,” he whispered quietly enough for only them to hear, and Seungcheol’s face softened.

But the look in his eyes did not fade.

“God, what a night!” Soonyoung exclaimed, words slurring together just a bit. “Look at this crowd! So many people - “

“And not a damned phantom in sight!” Seokmin finished with an arm wrapped around Jisoo’s waist.

Jeonghan winced at _his_ mention as if Seokmin had wounded him physically, all his anxiety coming back to him in a single soundless scream. But then the conversation moved on and Jeonghan’s turmoil was left unnoticed - except for the hand on his hip. No, the moment Seokmin uttered the word “phantom” Seungcheol gripped him harder, as if reflexive.

It left him with a hollow pounding in his chest.

Shortly after, their little group of friends dispersed, lost to the crowd and the music and the thrill of the celebration. With Seungcheol’s hand still so possessive against his body, he was brought towards an unoccupied corner of the room, a corner where they could be “alone”, and he met Seungcheol’s dark eyes. His mask matched Jeonghan’s too, both of them black with opposite sides decorated in white lace. On Seungcheol it didn’t even cover the worst of his scars from Mingyu; it didn’t cover the fire, the roughness in his gaze, and Jeonghan both hated and adored that look.

He’d seen it before; whenever Seungcheol had felt the need to play hero.

Every single time, it brought an anxiousness swirling in his gut, an anxiousness he felt would consume him if he let it.

“What is it, darling?” he whispered, reaching for Seungcheol’s hands to maybe comfort him.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I just… I have a bad feeling. Like we shouldn’t be here.”

Jeonghan sighed softly, as if pretending that he did not have a similar feeling, weighing down his bones. How suddenly it had come on. “It’s okay. Remember what you said this morning?”

Wrapped in each other’s warmth and naked limbs, burrowed away from the cold beneath their blankets, Seungcheol’s words a mere breadth from his ear.

_“You’re safe, love. No matter what happens tonight, even if he shows up… he won’t get his hands on you.”_

It was Seungcheol’s turn to sigh and he brought one of Jeonghan’s hands up to his lips for a gentle kiss. “I do.”

“But…”

“But,” he agreed with the softest of smiles, amused, before it disappeared, “he’s… he’s smart. Desperate. I - “

Jeonghan knew what lay beyond his words; he could catch the hidden meaning if he allowed himself. But he didn’t want to. So he silenced Seungcheol with a kiss. “Please,” he said when they both pulled away, Seungcheol’s cheeks tinged a light pink, “I don’t want to worry tonight. I just… I want tonight to be _fun._ The new year is coming, a clean slate…”

He laughed softly, ducking down for another kiss. This time, he lingered and the kiss was slow, their bodies pressed together in a way that left Jeonghan simultaneously numb and sparking. The foyer of the opera house was not the time nor the place for a kiss like this but Jeonghan welcomed his husband’s touch nonetheless. Strong hands against his back, lips parting with desire that was better suited for the bedroom, Jeonghan felt bold. Brazen. Challenging.

 _You failed, Mingyu,_ he wanted to say. _You weren’t strong enough to tear us apart._

But he knew Mingyu was far from done with him, with them. It settled in the back of his throat like stomach acid, and he pulled away from Seungcheol with an awful taste in his mouth.

“Come on,” Seungcheol murmured, “dance with me, love.”

And so they danced. They drank. They laughed and socialized and as the night wore on, thoughts of Mingyu went away, dissipating into nothing like wisps of smoke. He was the furthest thing from Jeonghan’s mind as he celebrated this night with the people who meant most to him, as he allowed himself to let go. He danced with Chan, wild, silly movements to the beat of a slow song. He danced with Junhui, something sexy that left both Seungcheol and Wonwoo coughing awkward laughter around red cheeks and ears. And when some elite tried to whisk Seungcheol away, Jeonghan was right at his side like the devoted, loving husband he was.

In this light-filled foyer, there was no room for shadows and phantoms.

Until there was.

A break in the music, filled with laughter and chatter, nearing midnight… Jeonghan’s heart, his soul, dropped.

Slow, heavy footsteps echoed off the stairs behind him as everything died down.

Some of the candles blew out, from some cold, invisible wind. As if they sensed the gravity of the situation. But it plunged the foyer into half darkness and Jeonghan felt harsh eyes burning into him. They seared through his back, finding their way into his heart, and a part of him did not want to turn around. No, he wanted to run and hide somewhere Mingyu could never find him.

Except, no matter where he went Mingyu would always, always seek him out.

He was darkness, grievous and unrelenting, an enemy… a refuge.

Beneath the fear pounding like blood in his body, there was a sliver of relief Jeonghan could not explain. After everything Mingyu had done to him, to Seungcheol, to the opera house, he still ached at seeing him. At knowing he was there. He was so dependent on Mingyu for so long that now his body reacted in such a visceral way.

It was instinctual to want Mingyu, just as badly as he was scared of him.

So Jeonghan turned on weak, uncertain feet, Seungcheol’s arm so tight around his waist, and met the gaze of the man he could never escape, whether or not he wanted to.

In six months, Mingyu had changed.

Dressed in red, clutching something leatherbound in one hand, he was still as handsome and fearsome as ever. His hair was longer, his clothes seemed to hang off of him a little more… but his eyes were still the same. Beneath a mask fashioned like a skull, that covered almost every part of his face except his mouth and jaw, he gazed at Jeonghan with the unfailing intensity he always had. It left shivers wracking his body but he could not look away. Not even as Seungcheol’s touch urged him to. Not even as he felt what seemed like a hundred other gazes on him.

In this traitorous moment, Mingyu was all that mattered.

There was a lifetime of distance between them, distance that could not be surmounted no matter how hard Mingyu tried.

He swallowed and looked away from Jeonghan, eyes hardening.

Even then, Jeonghan could not seem to breathe.

Mingyu took a step forward, boots heavy on the marble staircase, echoing through the quiet like thunder, and he smirked. The edges of a scar peeking out beneath his mask curled along with his lips. “Why so silent, good messieurs?” he asked of the crowd, of Seokmin and Soonyoung as his gaze focused on them.

They were closest to him on the staircase, frozen in fear with Jisoo and Jihoon at their sides.

When he got no response, Mingyu’s smirk widened and he looked at the managers like an animal stalking its prey. It was a look Jeonghan had been at the receiving end of before and he clung to Seungcheol with shaking fingers. “Did you think I had truly left for good?”

Seungcheol’s grip loosened and then he was gone, pushing back through the crowd, and only then did dread ease through Jeonghan’s system. Panic shot through him like ice - Seungcheol had broken his promise, he was leaving, he was leaving him with Mingyu…

“I have written you an opera in my absence,” he continued, slowly advancing, perhaps spurred on by the way Soonyoung and Seokmin seemed to shrink away from him. In the same breath, he produced that leatherbound book and waited silently for Soonyoung’s quick - and meek - snatching of it. But there was no leafing through it, not when Mingyu watched him so closely. “Inside are instructions you would be wise to follow, messieurs. We would not want a repeat of last time, hmm? Or perhaps something worse?”

Jeonghan’s entire body seemed crushed beneath an imperceptible force as the memories came rushing back; Mingyu’s voice thundering through the theater, Taewoo’s body strung up from the rafters…

He wanted to cry out for Seungcheol, for Mingyu to go away and never return.

But the pressure weighing him down also rendered him speechless.

“W-worse?” Seokmin stuttered with wide eyes.

Mingyu smirked once more. “You have no idea of what I am capable, monsieur. And if you wish it to stay so, you _will_ follow my instructions.”

Seokmin gulped.

And then Mingyu turned back towards Jeonghan. This time, there was no strong hand grounding him, no rational presence or words of comfort. Even his friends had stepped away from him, fear no doubt controlling their movements as Mingyu approached. His gaze set Jeonghan aflame, and he could not catch his breath. Like he was being suffocated. Nor could he move; he was rooted to the spot as Mingyu closed the distance between them, heart pounding, body screaming to call out for help, for his husband -

“Phantom!”

Seungcheol’s voice broke through the silence, broke through the spell, and Jeonghan’s knees went weak. But he dared not move an inch, not when the danger was just beginning. Mingyu’s eyes hardened as they swept over Jeonghan’s shoulder to who stood behind him.

Jeonghan turned his head.

His husband was at the foot of the stairs, rapier in hand, gallantry bright and foolish in his features, and Jeonghan wanted to cry. They were surrounded by friends and acquaintances - all this time, all these months and years, they had no idea what was going on, but now they would…

“Ah, dearest Vicomte,” Mingyu drawled, sarcasm coating his voice like honey. It was sharp to Jeonghan’s ears, but he still could not speak. “Decided to join our little party?”

“You need to leave,” Seungcheol said as he ascended the steps, the crowd parting for him. “Now.”

Mingyu smiled, showing off his teeth. “Oh, _do_ I? Am I not welcome here?”

“You know you’re not.” He came to stand beside Jeonghan, the blade of his sword crossing the distance between them and Mingyu, glinting in the flickering candlelight. “I won’t ask again, phantom.”

But he merely glanced at the rapier, as if completely unbothered by its presence. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time you tried to challenge me, Vicomte?”

Jeonghan did, of course he did. He’d never be able to forget Seungcheol bleeding out on the floor, scarred for life because Mingyu could not accept defeat. And judging by the way Seungcheol tightened his grip on his sword, he remembered too.

“I’d endure that again,” he said, “if it meant keeping Jeonghan safe from you.”

Jeonghan’s heart ached at his words.

Mingyu’s smile darkened, twisting into something evil, and Jeonghan couldn’t take it anymore. He turned towards his husband and pushed him down a step, away from Mingyu. He reached out with shaking, comforting hands to try and pry the rapier from his grip. He looked at Seungcheol with wide eyes that he knew had tears in them, he could feel it -

“Don’t,” he breathed in a voice as broken as he felt. “Seungcheol, please - “

“That’s right, angel.”

He flinched as if struck, the sound of his name on Mingyu’s tongue like poison, and he turned again to meet those dark eyes, that wicked smile. Oh the things Mingyu used to do to him. The way he used to leave him aching, wanting, craving. The way he used to leave him thrumming with pride in himself, at sweet words that masked his true intentions.

“Come back to me,” Mingyu whispered, as if he was capable of contrition, “to your angel of music. There’s so much I’ve yet to teach you, my love.”

He was right, especially if he wanted Jeonghan to take the lead in this opera of his (really, there was no doubt about it). His voice was hardly ready, especially after it fell into disuse these last few months. But he would never give himself up like that.

Mingyu might’ve had his mind but he would never have his voice again.

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol whispered.

He could feel so many eyes on him, watching in fear, in confusion, maybe some in understanding. For now his anxiety and the phantom’s interferences over the years must have made sense. His attack on Seungcheol and his disappearance, too.

He could feel Seungcheol’s eyes on him, Mingyu’s. Both familiar gazes that he was weak for, that made him feel so much. It wasn’t fair. He should be able to say _no._ After everything, he should be able to reject Mingyu. But the promise resting heavy in his gaze, the memories of his praising words and divine touches… Every time he wanted to cut Mingyu from his life, he was reminded of everything _good_ he’d ever done.

But how much of it had been insincere, to get Jeonghan right where he wanted him?

Jeonghan took a step towards him - Seungcheol grabbed his wrist - and something small and gold caught the nearby candlelight, bouncing off of the smooth surface of Mingyu’s ivory mask. Too late Jeonghan realized what it was, and Mingyu’s eyes dropped towards the ring resting against his chest. Suddenly the chain around his neck was stifling, strangling -

Mingyu reached out and seized the ring with ice in his eyes, ripping it from Jeonghan’s body like it was his to take. And when he spoke, his voice was as rough as his gaze, striking fear right into Jeonghan’s beating heart. “Your chains are still mine, Jeonghan,” he hissed. “You will sing for me.”

His body faltered, mind going blank as he prepared for the hit, the punishment - delicate hands caught him, hands that belonged to Junhui, as Seungcheol surged forward. He lunged at Mingyu with his rapier raised -

It caught the blade of Mingyu’s own, brandished as quickly as he’d appeared, pulled from a sheath hidden beneath his crimson cape. Their collision rang through the air and Jeonghan clung to the hands on him, unable to do anything but _watch._ His mind was nothing but cotton, empty yet thrumming with so much. His body was stone, heavy and immobilizing.

He could do nothing but _hope._

Seungcheol’s eyes were wide as he regarded Mingyu; he looked so young. Like a child. Facing that which he did not understand, that which would kill him if he wasn’t careful.

In the face of Seungcheol’s unease, his hesitation, Mingyu moved first with a slash that Seungcheol narrowly ducked - until it found his leg. The tip of the blade sliced through clothing and skin, blood welling up as gasps echoed through the foyer.

They outnumbered Mingyu countlessly, yet not a soul stepped in. Not even Jeonghan.

They were the audience, and this was Mingyu’s show, as shocking as everything else he did.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Seungcheol hissed through gritted teeth as blood dripped from his new wound, once again painting the floor of the opera house red. “And I won’t hesitate to hurt you.”

_“No.”_

The word rose up Jeonghan’s throat like bile, choked and unbidden. He didn’t mean it, couldn’t stop it - and it caught Mingyu’s attention. For the briefest of seconds, his dark eyes flicked in his direction before he fixed Seungcheol with a smirk.

“Then try, dear Vicomte,” he said evenly. “Show me how far you dare go.”

“Don’t,” Jeonghan gasped out, forcing himself from Junhui’s grasp, forcing himself to step in because if he didn’t, he knew what would happen. “Please…”

Both of them looked at him - Seungcheol with a love and a protectiveness that wounded him, Mingyu with a possessiveness that he felt in his bones - and then Mingyu turned and fled. Back up the staircase, the way he came.

Seungcheol snarled, perhaps in pain, perhaps in defeat, and pushed Jeonghan away when he reached out to him.

He followed after Mingyu, leaving behind drops of blood. Leaving behind Jeonghan.

The breath left his body and he sank to his knees, deaf to the rush of footsteps that pursued Seungcheol, blind to the faces and bodies in front of him, finally able to move now that Mingyu was gone. Hands were touching him, words tried to comfort him, distract him - but none of it was what Jeonghan wanted. He wanted Seungcheol back here, in his arms. He wanted Mingyu gone. He wanted… he wanted _peace._

Just for one night.

Footsteps echoed around Seungcheol, in front of him, behind him. The higher they climbed, marble and stone turning into wood, the more Seungcheol slowed. Blood loss began eating away at him, weakening his legs, his arms, his lungs and eyesight. Somewhere between the dancers’ dormitories, Mingyu faded into shadow and Seungcheol collapsed.

He’d die this time, he knew it. Mingyu knew about their marriage, Seungcheol had challenged him, had chased him injured and bleeding like the fool he is throughout the opera house - no, Mingyu would not let him live after this.

Conversely, Seungcheol would bestow the same fate on him, too.

If he could see anything other than this blackness.

“Seungcheol!”

The voice was familiar, coming from somewhere behind him. Wonwoo, he thought, as everything around him seemed to mute. With strong hands wrapped around him, he was pulled to his feet and propped against a frame slightly taller than his. Something ripped, fabric, and then there was a pressure against Seungcheol’s thigh, his bicep.

“You’re a goddamn fool,” a second voice huffed.

Junhui.

He tried to speak, tried to warn them, but nothing came out except for a pathetic sounding moan as he swayed in Wonwoo’s grip.

“You need to rest,” Wonwoo said, as if he was a child to scold. “And Jeonghan needs you.”

Jeonghan.

The reason he went after Mingyu without a second thought.

“Why,” he tried as the world slowly but surely came back into focus, now that he was standing still and Junhui had stopped the bleeding, “why did you come after me?”

“To stop you from getting yourself killed,” Wonwoo said. “Now come on, we’ll take you to the dorms - “

Memories, hazy with fear, sprung up in his mind. A weight pinning him to the floorboards, pain burning across his face, blood seeping between his parted lips… and then a voice. Low and deep, as familiar as it was suspicious. Mingyu had fled and the last thing Seungcheol remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was Wonwoo’s face.

He’d saved him a second time. As if he knew what Mingyu was capable of, what he would do.

“You - you know something,” he tried in a voice that sounded too thick, too slurred to his own ears as Junhui wrapped an arm around him too, from his other side. “You saved me again…”

Wonwoo sighed as they began to walk, slow, careful steps. “Shh. You need to rest, okay?”

“Once we get you in bed,” Junhui murmured, so much more gentle than Wonwoo was, “I’ll go find Jeonghan. Okay?”

“They need to leave,” Wonwoo said in a voice that held secrets. “They’re not safe here.”

“Neither of them is in a position to go anywhere right now,” Junhui argued. “We’ll keep them safe, won’t we?”

Wonwoo grumbled under his breath and then a few moments later Seungcheol was placed in a bed. Almost immediately his head started to pound, like fists beating his skull, and he groaned against the pain.

“You need to leave him alone,” Wonwoo murmured instead of comforting him. Not like Seungcheol expected, or would accept, anything different from him though. “You don’t know what he’s capable of. What he can do, what he’s _done.”_

“And you do?” Seungcheol grunted.

“Yes.”

The effort it took to hoist himself into a sitting position with one arm was a bit pathetic, really, but he didn’t want Jeonghan to see him looking weak if he could help it. “How?” he croaked.

Wonwoo looked away, towards the closed door. It was just the two of them in the dorm - somehow in his haze he missed Junhui leaving - but Seungcheol could not shake the phantom that loomed. “I can’t tell you, Seungcheol. I promised I wouldn’t - “

“Promised who? Promised _him?”_

He didn’t speak, and during those agonizing moments Seungcheol tried to gather himself, tried to get his bearings. Tried to make sense of the last half hour. But when Wonwoo looked at him, he couldn’t focus on anything else. Agony marred Wonwoo’s features, tears welling in his dark eyes, and Seungcheol actually felt _sympathy_ for him. Whatever relationship he had with Mingyu, Seungcheol figured it was something like Jeonghan’s.

And he knew firsthand how broken someone with that kind of poison in their heart could be.

“Wonwoo…”

The door opened and in less than three seconds, Jeonghan was in Seungcheol’s lap. Sobbing against his neck. Clinging to him with a desperation that brought tears to his own eyes but he did not shed them.

“You’re so stupid,” Jeonghan cried into his skin, rightfully so. “How could you just go after him like that?”

“I did it for you,” Seungcheol murmured, crushing Jeonghan against him as best as he could. “I know it was stupid but all I could think about was losing you and I just…”

“You don’t want to lose me, but I can’t lose _you,_ Seungcheol.” He sat back, sniffling, and Seungcheol settled into their routine of drying his eyes and cheeks for him. “Don’t do it again, please.”

“I won’t,” and he leaned in for a gentle kiss, Wonwoo and Junhui’s presence be damned. “I swear I won’t, love.”

They fell into silence, then, all four of them avoiding each other’s gazes until Wonwoo suddenly spoke.

“So, you’re married.”

His tone was hardly accusing but Jeonghan tensed on Seungcheol’s lap, nonetheless. He took a moment to shift onto the mattress, holding tight to Seungcheol’s hand, before he answered in a trembling voice. “Yes.”

Wonwoo sighed heavily and glanced between them, glanced at Junhui. He hung his head. “I… need to tell you something. All of you. But - but especially you, Jeonghan.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

He reached out a shaking hand towards Junhui, who took it immediately. “Before I say anything, you have to know that I never wanted you to get hurt. I tried to protect you from him but I was under the same damn spell he had you under…”

Jeonghan tensed and squeezed Seungcheol’s hand to the point where his bones ached. But he let him, his heart once again breaking for his husband. He’d never thought about it like this before; if Wonwoo did indeed know Mingyu, why hadn’t he done anything to stop him from manipulating Jeonghan the way he had?

Two of the people Jeonghan trusted most had betrayed him. Whether they meant to do it or not.

“Who?” he whispered in a hollow voice.

Wonwoo sighed once more. “Mingyu.”


	13. twelve: long guard the echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a rough one but it needed to happen :(
> 
> tw: implied child neglect, bullying, several instances of past (minor) character death, mentions of blood, accidental death (very minor character), self-blame, slight panic attacks. basically, just A Lot of angst.
> 
> also!! reminder!! while involving real people, this au is a work of fiction!! which means i view said real people as simply characters, and i do not see these characters as accurate reflections of their irl counterparts. they are here simply to fill a role, to tell a story.

**twelve: long guard the echoes**

The moment Mingyu’s name left Wonwoo’s lips, Jeonghan looked away from him. Everything in his body tensed, like he was on edge, but his eyes were dull, unfocused, as they found the floor. It wasn’t the reaction Wonwoo had been expecting (to be fair, he didn’t actually have a reaction in mind) but at least he wasn’t shutting him down right out of the gate. Perhaps he might let Wonwoo talk. Explain himself.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, seemed less… amiable. Wonwoo couldn’t blame him, of course; everything he’d been doing lately was for Jeonghan. To keep him safe and happy. He’d even been foolish enough to run after Mingyu tonight, most likely knowing that it would kill him. So yes, Wonwoo expected there might be some fighting from him. He’d hated Mingyu from the start. But Jeonghan… Jeonghan was in the same boat as Wonwoo. Struggling with feelings for a man such as him.

Perhaps this would help him. Perhaps he’d be able to let go of Mingyu for good.

And then there was Junhui, who knew bits and pieces of the story already. There was Junhui, holding Wonwoo’s hand tightly, grounding him. As if he knew how badly Wonwoo would need it.

“How did you meet him?” Seungcheol asked. The fabric around his leg, torn from Junhui’s sleeve, was reddening slowly but surely, and they’d have to change it soon. But he showed no interest in that; his gaze was sharp as he looked at Wonwoo, as if he was content to burn him at the stake for his sins.

Perhaps he deserved it; he’d seen the signs twenty years ago and still let Mingyu run rampant. He’d let him manipulate and corrupt a young man, a _boy,_ he considered to be his younger brother. He’d let him hurt and kill...

“At an orphanage,” he said quietly, trying to push the thoughts away to focus on the story he had to tell. “He was four years old, I was nine.”

“So he was orphaned,” Seungcheol noted, glancing at Jeonghan out of the corner of his eyes, no doubt already starting to connect the dots.

“He was,” Wonwoo said. “In a house fire that killed his parents and half of a block in the inner city slums. Dropped off the moment doctors deemed his burns healed enough.”

Junhui sighed and squeezed Wonwoo’s hand lightly. His palm was warm, fingers comforting, and the look in his eyes was full of so much love Wonwoo thought he might burst. This would be his first time hearing most of this too, and Wonwoo would be lying if he said the fear of Junhui leaving wasn’t present. Really, it was at the forefront of his mind, choking his words back as much as the thought of Jeonghan being angry with him. He was broken, no doubt beyond repair, and Junhui would see that and he’d leave and then -

 _Stop,_ he told himself. _That’s Mingyu talking._

All the times he put Wonwoo down. All the times he beguiled Wonwoo to his side by claiming that no one cared about him. Not Chan, not Jeonghan.

All the times he broke Wonwoo’s heart.

He hadn’t always been like that, and perhaps that hurt the most. That Wonwoo could still remember him as he used to be: kind, loving, innocent. A friend. But now… now he was a monster. A killer. An abuser. Someone who used and took and hurt for his own selfish whims.

Wonwoo hoped he’d be able to get through everything he needed to say.

“That’s why he latched onto me, right?” Jeonghan whispered, and all eyes turned to him. He didn’t move, just stayed looking at the floor. But the weight in his voice brought tears to Wonwoo’s eyes. He _blamed_ himself. Blamed himself for losing his parents, for having that connection to Mingyu, as if it was something he could control. “Because we were both orphans.”

“Yes,” Wonwoo said, well aware of the way his voice broke. “I’m sorry, Jeonghan.”

Deep down, he knew who was truly at fault for all of this but placing the blame solely on Mingyu still felt so wrong after all these years. As foolish as he knew that sounded.

There was a moment when he thought Jeonghan might not respond, but then his eyes flicked towards Wonwoo. They were hollow and dark. “What for? It’s not your fault.”

“He’s right,” Junhui murmured, bringing Wonwoo’s hand to his mouth to kiss it. Brushes of his sweet lips against Wonwoo’s knuckles; such a tender, intimate gesture sent sparks through Wonwoo’s body and for as long as he lived, he didn’t want to be without Wen Junhui. “We all know who’s to blame.”

“He made the decisions to act the way he did,” Wonwoo agreed slowly, “but my own actions didn’t help. I should’ve reached out for help but instead I just… I hung my head and let him go on like that.”

“Tell us,” Seungcheol said. “Everything.”

Wonwoo nodded.

There was light in Mingyu’s eyes when he came into Wonwoo’s life.

He’d been through his fair share of tragedy at such a young age (truly, hadn’t they all, at the orphanage?) and he bore the scars on his face. Burns that had licked dangerously close to his right eye, brushing the same corner of his lips like a kiss of near-death. Marred skin that disappeared beneath the collar of his tattered clothes. He was almost half bald on the one side, ragged, pale marks twisting along his head where hair should've been. Used to be.

On the surface, he seemed healed. Scarred, but healed. The fire was long gone and the doctors had done all they could to help him recover. Yes, there was even that light in his eyes. It shone bright as the moon amongst the stars rolling down his cheeks. But Wonwoo could see through it; standing before him was a broken, terrified four year old who just wanted his parents back.

His physical wounds had mended but the wounds in his mind, his heart, his soul had not.

They never would.

Wonwoo was nine years old then, practically a staple of the overcrowded orphanage. He’d been there around seven years, rather cruelly spared the cholera that took away a mother and an older brother he didn’t remember, abandoned by his drunkard father, and watched so many others get picked before him. He understood, of course; it was a hard lesson to learn at his age but no one wanted orphans as small as him, as sickly as him. Why would they, when it was difficult enough to feed themselves or their blood children? No, he’d made peace with his fate long ago: he’d waste away in this orphanage until he was old enough to leave. And then he would be free.

Mingyu, he knew, would receive the same fate.

If he hadn’t been able to tell by the cursed scars on his face, he would’ve known from the caretakers themselves. Muttering about the poor waste of space Mingyu was, not even three feet from him, how the fire should’ve claimed him too. What an unjust god there was, they said, allowing such a child to carry those grievous scars. Allowing him to live with them when he had no parents, no family to care for him.

There Mingyu had stood, no doubt feeling as small as he looked, sniffling pathetically as he tried in vain to hide behind his hands. All eyes were on him in a way that left Wonwoo’s stomach curling in on itself, and his heart broke.

He couldn’t explain it back then and almost twenty-five years later he still could not… but something inside him cried out for Mingyu. To comfort him. To protect him from the callousness of man, from people who did not - _could_ not - understand him.

Taking a deep breath, pushing glasses that were a bit too blurry up the bridge of his nose, he crossed the room. Knelt in front of Mingyu so they were eye level. And he smiled.

“They told us your name is Mingyu,” he said softly. “Well, my name is Wonwoo. It’s lovely to meet you.”

He wondered if his mother would be proud of him and his manners.

Mingyu peeked at him through tiny, shaking hands - and there, Wonwoo saw the light. It was the innocence every child seemed to have, the innocence that this dreadful place slowly, methodically wore at every day, and Wonwoo vowed to himself in that moment that he’d do whatever it took to keep it there, in Mingyu’s eyes. No matter what it took, he would make sure no one else in this world hurt him.

What a shame he was already too late.

“Wonwoo,” Mingyu whispered around a hollow, failing smile.

He nodded and reached up to wipe the tears from his round cheeks, pretending not to notice the way Mingyu winced as his thumb brushed ragged skin. As if the pain was still there. “Yes, that’s right. I’m… I’m your new big brother.”

Still in their earshot, the caretakers scoffed.

The other children in the room seemed unconcerned now, like Wonwoo’s kindness reminded them that Mingyu was indeed one of them.

Mingyu’s smile widened a bit more, tilting up towards his big, brown eyes. It drew the scars with it. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He gave Mingyu a tour of his new home, clutching to his little hand as they walked. For the most part, Mingyu was silent, wide eyes taking everything in with little to no tears. He squeezed Wonwoo’s hand like it was the one thing he could hold onto in this place and Wonwoo squeezed right back.

And then they came across the piano.

It was an ugly, decrepit thing, assigned the same fate as Wonwoo as it sat in its sad corner in a hallway, collecting dust. No one had played it in the seven years Wonwoo had been here; the ivory keys were even yellowing. But that did not deter Mingyu as he brought them over to it. The hand not holding Wonwoo’s reached for the wood with a startling gentleness, stubby fingers touching with familiarity.

“Did you have one, in your house?” Wonwoo asked.

Mingyu nodded and his fingertips danced lightly over the keys.

“Do you know how to play it?”

“A little bit,” he whispered, as if it were a secret. As if he didn’t want anyone to overhear them. And then, with shining eyes, he pressed down on a key.

A sharp, discordant sound broke through the silence and Mingyu immediately withdrew his hand. Wonwoo tensed as the chord mellowed into nothingness, more than prepared to wipe frightened tears away if he needed to. But Mingyu had none; he merely stared at the dilapidated instrument in awe.

“Do you know how to tune it?” he whispered, meeting Wonwoo’s gaze. “Or fix it?”

“No,” he said, “but I’ll learn.”

Mingyu smiled and wrapped short, chubby arms around his midsection, resting the marred side of his face against Wonwoo’s stomach. A hug. “Thank you.”

For a moment Wonwoo could do nothing but stand there, a million thoughts in his mind. How lonely was this child, parentless at such a tender age? How love-starved was he, not even shown a modicum of affection from the caretakers of the orphanage in which he now lived; caretakers who believed he’d be better off dead?

How rejected did he feel that four simple words, an easy promise, filled him with so much gratitude?

Letting out a breath that was shakier than he thought it would be, Wonwoo ran his fingers through Mingyu's hair and pressed him closer.

“That’s no excuse for the things he has done, the things he intends to do,” Seungcheol said, holding Jeonghan against him as they sat on the bed. He was far more responsive than his husband was, ever since Wonwoo started talking; Jeonghan simply sat almost frozen, eyes boring into the floor. “Orphan or not, lonely or not - “

“I’m not… I’m not defending him,” Wonwoo whispered, and the words, while true, were a weight on his tongue, his heart. When had it shifted? When had he begun thinking differently about the man he thought he loved?

Beside him, Junhui offered his hand a gentle squeeze. Silent support to continue. Support he did not deserve.

Wonwoo sighed and pushed those thoughts from his mind. “You misunderstand, monsieur,” he said, meeting Seungcheol’s hard gaze. “I am past the point of defending him and his actions. I’m simply… explaining his reasonings, his rationale.”

“It’s jealousy,” Seungcheol said, as if it could be so simple. “He’s - he’s obsessed with...” As if remembering his company, he trailed off.

Jeonghan shifted, knuckles as white as the bedsheets he gripped, gaze decidedly on the floor.

“I wish, monsieur,” Wonwoo murmured. “But his misdeeds are not relegated to just the opera house. Jealousy and obsession fuel only his… recent sins.”

“Recent?” Seungcheol asked.

He couldn’t help the shiver that wracked his body as the memories returned. Looking back now, he should’ve known. He should’ve seen Mingyu for the man he was, even at such a young age, and found someone to help. Maybe then… maybe then they wouldn’t be here.

Mingyu adjusted to the orphanage as well as could be expected; his nights were spent in Wonwoo’s bed, crying and murmuring through nightmares that left him rattled and wide awake halfway to dawn. His days were spent with tired, blinking eyes, sitting by Wonwoo’s side as he poured over the manual that came with the piano. It too was a dusty old thing and the limited education Wonwoo had received made it difficult to read… but it didn’t take long to figure out how to fix it up.

Slowly but surely, the piano became something playable. Slowly but surely, the light returned to Mingyu’s eyes.

All because of Wonwoo.

He treasured that piano. Filled the orphanage with halting plunks that eventually gave way to decent chords as the months went on. Somehow he learned to read music as Wonwoo learned to read books; something in him was genius, as bright as his gaze. It left Wonwoo swelling with pride, even as the caretakers and the other children complained about the noise.

The more Mingyu played, the less he woke himself up from nightmares. The more he played, the more he smiled.

If only that had been enough for the world. If only someone else saw past the scars the way Wonwoo did. But that was too much to ask, evidently.

Mingyu did not smile on visit days, nor adoption days. Perhaps he had during the first few, Wonwoo couldn’t really remember, but as his fifth birthday approached he began to draw into himself on those days. He didn’t react when the adults visiting stared at him with thinly veiled reproach. When they called him ugly, either to his face or behind his back. When the other children told him that no one would want him.

He did not react until he and Wonwoo were alone, and then he would cry. Terrible sobs that wracked his body and left his face a wet, snotty mess. And he would ask Wonwoo _why._ Why he was alone. Why no family wanted him. Why people were so mean.

And Wonwoo never had an answer. Nothing that seemed explainable or fair to a five year old, anyway. So he’d simply held Mingyu close and made promises. Most of them were empty, just to placate him - that someday he’d have a family again, that he just had to wait for the right people - but one, he meant with every fiber in his being. That he’d never leave Mingyu alone. That he loved him, no matter what.

As the years went on, Mingyu closed off even more. He stopped crying after visit days. He stopped crying when the other children bullied him. He stopped crying after his nightmares.

He stopped crying for his parents, as if he had accepted his new fate.

Instead, he threw himself into that piano. Through odd jobs and a bit of pickpocketing, Wonwoo saved up enough francs to buy Mingyu a book of music. There were names he recognized on the front, names of composers and songs, and Mingyu loved it. By his ninth birthday, he’d memorized every composition in it. He’d even messed around with some of his own, scrawling messy notes onto blank sheets of paper he could find. And he’d play them for Wonwoo. It was as much emotion as he showed those days.

Well, besides anger.

He’d traded sadness for rage and it left him just as lonely. Once the other children started getting used to him, to his scars, they’d be further pushed away by his temper. The way he closed himself off to everyone, even Wonwoo sometimes.

Which should’ve been worrying enough.

But, to be fair, they all were like that at times; at fourteen Wonwoo was as much an adult as the caretakers. He’d even found work in the city; pulling ropes at the fancy opera house maybe twenty minutes’ walk from the orphanage. It was hardly glorious, nor did it pay well, but it was the best sort of work an orphan his age could get.

Luckily enough, it strengthened him. He stopped catching every cold he came across and was even able to purchase glasses that actually worked for him, with the money he made.

As such, he stopped being overlooked by couples that visited. No longer was he that sick little boy too small for his age. He was almost an adult now, a capable, responsible young man. It was a beautiful feeling, the thought that maybe he’d be adopted. The thought that someone _wanted_ him, that they wanted to love him as a son.

He’d gotten close, one summer. They were in their thirties and she’d suffered so many miscarriages that they just… gave up. But they liked Wonwoo because he was smart. Because he was kind. Because he’d been there for twelve years and their hearts broke at his story. Wonwoo liked them too; liked the way they looked at him, the way they spoke to him and touched his hair with fondness in their eyes. A fondness he’d never seen directed at him before.

What a _feeling._

But in his excitement, he hadn’t noticed Mingyu’s continually growing anger, his resentment. Or the way the bullying worsened.

And then he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Working as a stagehand kept him out until midnight most nights but he liked that. Especially during the summer. There was something about walking through the streets of Paris long after everyone else was asleep. He could be alone with his thoughts and lately, they seemed to revolve around the promise of a family. Any day now, he knew. Paperwork just had to be signed or something. And then he’d belong to someone, finally.

(Something that angered Mingyu, and he’d remind Wonwoo that he already did belong to someone.)

One particular night, September chilled the air, so he’d rushed home to avoid it. All he wanted was to curl up under his blanket and think about his new parents. About the people he was meeting at the opera house, the friendships he was building.

But instead, he found Mingyu running through the streets of Paris, barefoot and covered in blood.

Panic settled in Wonwoo’s mind as he caught the child, thinking first that the blood was his. That the bullying had gone too far in his absence and they’d _hurt_ him. But he could find no wounds on the hands that gripped his, leaving his own skin splattered in crimson.

“What happened?” he asked, trying to calm Mingyu’s harsh breaths, his shallow sobs. Trying to make sense of the blood-stained child in front of him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m s-sorry,” Mingyu gasped and he gripped Wonwoo so tightly. Desperately. There was a wild look in his eyes and Wonwoo hated it. “Wonwoo, I’m sorry, I didn’t - I didn’t mean to - “

His mind tried to connect everything, the blood, the apology, the frenzy he seemed to be in, but Wonwoo stopped it. He couldn’t lead himself down that path, couldn’t fathom what his brain was telling him. “What did you do, Gyu?”

For a few moments Mingyu didn’t speak; he just shook his head again and again, like he was trying to clear it. “I-I didn’t mean to, but he… I was so mad. They kept - they kept being so _mean_ and the caretakers didn’t step in and… and they broke it, Wonwoo. They-they broke the piano and I couldn’t think… I don’t know, we-we ended up fighting and I… I pushed him. D-Down the stairs…”

He could picture it. Any one of the cruel children, mocking him, destroying the piano like they’d all been threatening to for months now. Mingyu alone. Shoved to the edge by years of abuse, by feeling abandoned by Wonwoo…

“He was bleeding when I got down there. And - and they all _yelled_ at me. I-I kept saying it was an accident but they… and the way the caretakers looked at me…”

Wonwoo’s throat tightened and he couldn’t breathe, but he pulled Mingyu close anyway. Comforted him until his tears stopped; until all he could smell was blood. When he drew back, Mingyu looked at him with such fear, such love it made him _hurt._ How could Wonwoo just leave him here? How could Wonwoo return to the orphanage and wait for his family?

They wouldn’t understand. No one would. Mingyu was hated for his differences, for his temper, and his age would not be enough to save him. Not after what he’d done that night.

But Wonwoo understood. Wonwoo loved him. And he’d promised…

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he whispered, kissing Mingyu’s forehead. “Come on, I know where we could go.”

That time of night, the opera house would be all but empty, dark and silent save for the dancers and stagehands that slept there. It was the perfect hiding spot, until Wonwoo could figure out their next move. So they went, hand in hand, Mingyu sniffling softly beside him. It reminded Wonwoo a bit of their first meeting, showing Mingyu around the orphanage. Back then it had been just the two of them. Now it was still just the two of them, except this time all they had to lose was each other.

Wonwoo never saw his prospective parents again.

The room was silent when he finished speaking, and none of them looked at him. Which, truly, he was grateful for. It was difficult enough to dredge those memories from his subsconscious; it was difficult enough to talk about them without breaking down. And if Jeonghan or Junhui had met his gaze, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to go on.

“The other boy died, I assume?” Seungcheol asked.

Wonwoo nodded. “They tried looking for Mingyu but, well, both of them were orphans so… no one really cared. He was just another dead child without parents and then Mingyu was just another lost one. I was close enough to adulthood that they gave up on me, too.”

“Even your family?” Junhui asked and the catch in his voice forced Wonwoo to look anywhere but at him. “They wanted you but they just…”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Wonwoo whispered. “Even if they had looked for me, I wouldn’t have left Mingyu. I couldn’t. He was my responsibility then, more than ever.”

Junhui sighed heavily and kissed his hand again. Something in Wonwoo longed to shut himself away from Junhui’s tenderness, his support and understanding. It was the same aching, choking feeling that begged him to shut up, to stop talking. He wondered how much of it was his own self, and how much of it was Mingyu. Burned into his thoughts, his feelings, his behaviors and motives for so long now.

“So you brought him here,” Seungcheol said. “Hid him in the vaults and catacombs.”

“It was either that or… or we’d live on the streets. To justify it, I deluded myself into thinking he wouldn’t have survived that. That he needed to be alone, where no one could hurt him again. But…”

Seungcheol sighed. “But the isolation only made him more mad.”

A lump formed in his throat and Wonwoo couldn’t speak, so he just nodded again. How could he have been so stupid? Thinking that locking Mingyu away was the best decision?

“Wonwoo.”

Junhui’s voice was firm in that way that brokered no arguments; he only spoke like that when Wonwoo was spiraling like this. When he was losing himself in guilt and hurt and his own vicious mind. But he couldn’t bring himself to look at him. No, the more he thought about it the more he just wanted to disappear. The more he wanted to be left alone because he didn’t deserve Junhui trying to bring him back.

The bed creaked and he saw Jeonghan move from it but Wonwoo squeezed his eyes shut before he could see anymore. Before he caught sight of the betrayal, the anger on Jeonghan’s face, no doubt.

“Wonwoo,” he whispered.

“It’s my fault,” he managed, and he felt like a child. “I should’ve just - should’ve just turned him in. Or brought him to another orphanage. Or - or found the couple that wanted me, begged them to take Mingyu instead of me - “

“It’s not your fault,” Jeonghan said. And then there were long, slim arms around him, drawing him into a hug he did not deserve, but he reciprocated it. Buried his face in Jeonghan’s neck. “You were trying your best, you had no idea…”

“Stop it, Han. Okay? I know it’s my fault. Because of me, because I wasn’t there, he killed that child. Because of me he’s been locked down here for twenty years. Because of me, he grew close to you - “

Jeonghan made a noise and pulled away. “No, _you_ stop it.”

Wonwoo dared himself to open his eyes, to come face to face with the anger he caused. But all he found was sadness. It was profound, an incredible kind of sadness that gutted Wonwoo. “Jeonghan…”

“If that’s the way we’re going about this,” he said, lower lip trembling, “then the backdrop falling on Seungkwan is my fault. S-Seungcheol… Seungcheol getting hurt is my fault too. Taewoo’s death. Everything that’s happened tonight.”

Seungcheol stood up, too, like he wanted to reach out to his husband. Like they’d had this conversation so many times before. “Darling…”

But Jeonghan ignored him, keeping his tear-filled eyes on Wonwoo. “Would you blame me for all of that, Wonwoo?”

“Of course not,” he whispered, and he knew exactly where Jeonghan was going with this argument. And as logical as it was, it still didn’t feel applicable to him. Not after the opportunities he had to stop Mingyu, to get him help. “But - “

“Then don’t blame yourself,” Jeonghan said, “for what you couldn’t control.”

“He’s right, love,” Junhui murmured. “This is what Mingyu wants. If you take the blame, then he can’t. He escapes, again. But he needs to be held accountable for the choices he’s made, the people he’s hurt. No matter the motive.”

The moment Junhui wound an arm around his waist, Wonwoo melted into him. Turned towards him and let himself be held the way he needed. “I… I’ve spent so long blaming myself,” he whispered, spurred on by the warmth in Junhui’s touch. “Mingyu always… he always blamed me too. For not being there that night. For… for everything.”

“What else?” Seungcheol asked.

Wonwoo debated just keeping his mouth shut now. They’d heard enough, hadn’t they? But God, there was just so much more. So he took a breath before speaking again.

The first year or so at the opera house went by well. Wonwoo celebrated his fifteenth birthday, Mingyu his tenth, and Wonwoo made friends. He was good at pulling ropes and assembling props; he was also good at drinking and laughing at stories. Whenever a production was finished, Wonwoo would… recommission some of the props. Take them down into the basements and fashion whatever Mingyu needed for his new home. A bed, sheets, candelabras. He’d rehem costumes into clothes, or sometimes take whatever didn’t fit the dancers anymore.

Mingyu’s first mask was half of a masquerade thing, which Wonwoo had found after the annual ball. Eighteen years to the day.

He started getting… antsy then. Of course he was; he was ten years old, sitting alone in darkness for most of the day. So he crashed rehearsals. Made a nuisance on the rafters where no one could see him. Stole trinkets for fun.

One of the dancers started calling him the phantom of the opera. And it stuck.

Eventually Mingyu found the storage sharing the same space as him - and the opera house’s old organ. That became his escape, much like the piano at the orphanage. He composed songs that sounded just as beautiful as the music played up in the theater; he stole sheet music to practice; he stole blank parchment and feathers and ink.

It seemed as if things were going to turn out fine, then; Mingyu had something to distract himself, something to devote his time to, to help him grow.

And then… Jeonghan came to the opera house.

At the mention of his name, he tensed in his husband’s arms. Seungcheol held him tightly, murmuring into his ear; “it’s all right, it’s not your fault,” he whispered. He seemed to be able to read Jeonghan’s mind and his emotions the way Junhui could for Wonwoo, comforting and reassuring even if he wouldn’t listen.

“I ruined everything, didn’t I?” Jeonghan whispered.

“No,” Junhui said emphatically. “You ruined nothing. It was his choice.”

He took a shaky breath and met Wonwoo’s gaze. What he saw there was unreadable, yet it still broke his heart. Of course it did. “I need to know,” Jeonghan whispered. “Was there… was there anything I could’ve done to stop him and his… his… obsession?”

Wonwoo shook his head and he meant it. “It was all him, Han. You were just… you fit what he wanted. What he thought he needed.”

“What do you mean?”

For a moment, words failed. How could he even begin to describe, to explain something as dark and twisted as the love Mingyu held for Jeonghan? But he needed to try. “You… well, you were an orphan. All of the other dancers were here because their parents were rich, because it was an incredible opportunity for them. Yes, the same could be said of you but you lived there because you had no choice. Because you were alone. Mingyu… he liked that. He liked that you were like him. Even I, who’d lost a mother, couldn’t technically say I was an orphan with my father still alive. Though I pretended I was.”

Jeonghan bit his lip, fingers wrapping tightly around Seungcheol’s hand. “He heard me, didn’t he? Talking to the other dancers about… about the angel of music.”

“Yes,” and Wonwoo’s heart sank. What a betrayal that had been. Just thinking about it still made him angry. “I didn’t know he came to you, pretending like that. Otherwise I would’ve stopped him. I know I would have. To take something so sacred to you and your late father and mold it into a reason to get closer to you? When I found out I was… I was so upset. But the damage had already been done.”

He sighed softly and looked down at his and Seungcheol’s joined hands in his lap. “Why did he take such an interest in me? Other orphans came after me, so why… why me?”

It was something Wonwoo still struggled to understand after ten years, truth be told. “I think… I think he liked your attention. You believed he was this angel, not the monster others thought he was. The monster he thought himself to be. You were alone, so… kind and forgiving, and he just took advantage of it without thinking.”

“Like you,” Junhui whispered.

Wonwoo looked at the floor, at his shoes, and tried to will the thoughts away before they came. If he hadn’t taken Mingyu under his wing when they met, if he’d treated him the same as the other boys… “And then you grew up and you were so beautiful. I think he sort of lost himself in it, in the fact that this beautiful, sweet young man gave him attention. You were all he had for so long and then - “

“He had you too,” Seungcheol said. “I mean, you’ve been here the entire time…”

“Trust me,” Wonwoo said against the knot in his throat, “I’ve wondered for years why I was never enough for him. The best I can come up with is that I was there through it all. I knew who he was, what he was capable of. I… I’d locked him away and given him this life of solitude, made him the phantom he became.”

“But I didn’t,” Jeonghan said in understanding. “So he… he latched onto that.”

“Exactly.”

“And then… and then Seungcheol showed up,” he continued. “Mingyu felt threatened. Like with the children who destroyed his piano.”

Wonwoo nodded. “Except now, his actions are not accidental. He knows what he’s doing, what he wants.”

They all sat in silence for a few moments, perhaps trying to process everything they’d heard. Jeonghan was, again, unreadable and Wonwoo wanted to know what he was thinking. If he was upset that Wonwoo had kept all this from him. Or if all his anger was directed at Mingyu.

Finally, Seungcheol spoke up. Hands stroking comfort into Jeonghan’s skin, he looked as disturbed as Wonwoo expected. “We can’t let Soonyoung and Seokmin put on his opera.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Wonwoo said.

“I don’t have a good feeling about it,” Seungcheol shot back and there was a desperate tinge to his eyes. How could Wonwoo blame him, after everything he and Jeonghan had been through in the last few months? “I don’t know what he could have planned but…”

Jeonghan shook his head, pulling away from his husband’s embrace to tug his knees up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs and squeezed his eyes shut. “He knows we’re married now,” he whispered. “I can only imagine…”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Seungcheol whispered, reaching for him once more. “You know I won’t.”

“It’s not myself I’m worried about,” Jeonghan said, and he looked so lost and small like this. What was going through his head, Wonwoo wondered? “He-he’s attacked you for less. What if he - ?”

Seungcheol immediately scooped him up into his arms, awkwardly placing him in his lap as he held Jeonghan tight. “Don’t think like that, darling.”

“You should head home,” Junhui said softly, meeting Seungcheol’s gaze above the top of Jeonghan’s head.

So they let Wonwoo’s words hang in the air. No doubt they’d revisit them again soon, but not that night. No, Jeonghan needed to be home. Away from here. As did Wonwoo.

In the quiet of Wonwoo’s bedroom, the sounds of Junhui undressing were louder than thunder. Eyes closed, Wonwoo listened. The rustling of fabric, the purring of zippers, and then soft footsteps. Junhui pressed against Wonwoo’s bare back, hands skimming his stomach slowly.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, a warm breath against Wonwoo’s shoulder. “For telling us everything.”

“There’s… there’s still so much,” he murmured as he placed his hands over Junhui’s, as he allowed himself to relax in the presence of the man who cared for him so deeply. “But I didn’t - I didn’t know how they might react to it. How you would…”

Junhui sighed once more before brushing a kiss to his neck. “I won’t push you, love.”

“I know you won’t.” He turned around to catch Junhui’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss. Now that he’d voiced the feelings, the guilt swirling around his head for so long, he felt… better. Lighter. He felt validated, understood, seen. Things Mingyu never made him feel.

But Junhui did.

He reached down and grasped Junhui’s thighs, picking him up in a motion that broke their kiss. But Junhui merely grinned, fingers curling through his hair, slender legs wrapped around his hips. Oh, he was beautiful, inside and out. The most perfect man Wonwoo had ever seen - and he was his. He was the one holding Junhui, kissing him…

“I love you,” he whispered.

Never had words felt so right. Never had Wonwoo felt so lucky.

Junhui leaned in to kiss him softly, it left Wonwoo’s insides melting. “I love you too.”

He carried Junhui to the bed and laid him down - and then he took his time. Worshipping Junhui’s body the way he deserved, painting his skin with kisses that could not properly express the way he felt. But Junhui opened up for him all the same, filling the room with his sweet, soft moans, urging Wonwoo on when he was almost too overwhelmed to continue. Of course, they had had sex before but never like this. Truth be told, no partner of Wonwoo’s had ever made him feel this way. Not even Mingyu. No, most of those couplings had been borne out of loneliness, out of a need to know something other than numbness. They were escapes, even those first times with Junhui.

But this?

This was a declaration of love. This was Wonwoo realizing that he did not belong to Mingyu, the way he thought he did for so many years. No, he was his own person. He belonged to himself, he could make his own decisions - and he chose Junhui. He _would_ choose Junhui, every time. No matter what.

Junhui was like spring. Bright and warm, a welcome respite after so many months of cold. Breathing life into Wonwoo’s frostbitten soul. Beautiful and forgiving, everything seemed reborn when he was around.

Junhui _loved_ him, who spent so long believing he did not deserve it. Who gave up everything for other people. Who let someone destroy him, strip him away until he was nothing but a shell of a man. But he wasn’t, was he? In Junhui’s arms, he was _somebody._ In Junhui’s arms, he was worth it.

They fit together so perfectly, as if they were made for each other; the push and pull of their bodies heady and electrifying. Like Wonwoo was coming alive once more; like every shuddering breath and shaky moan that left Junhui’s lips sustained him. It was too much, and the heat pooling in his veins, in his gut, threatened to pour over.

“Wonwoo,” Junhui gasped softly, a light sheen of sweat slicking his skin. He glinted in the candlelight, like a precious jewel. And he _was_ precious indeed, the most beautiful man Wonwoo had ever laid eyes on. Would ever lay eyes on.

“I love you,” and it was all he could say. All he wanted to say, burying his face in Junhui’s neck as his hips stuttered.

They came together, and stayed like that, Junhui murmuring that they could clean up in the morning. And for the first time in so long, Wonwoo fell asleep without worrying about what lay in the shadows. He was without care, holding his love in his arms.

For once in his life, he felt whole.

The carriage ride back to Seungcheol’s estate - _their_ estate now - was done in complete silence from both parties. Jeonghan could hardly speak for Seungcheol (though a few furtive glances showed him deep in thought as well, lips pursed, brows furrowed in that way that made him look so much older than he was) but he himself was… pondering. Processing. Trying to make sense of everything they’d seen and heard tonight.

Mingyu was back, and he’d written an opera he no doubt wanted Jeonghan to star in. And he… he knew about their marriage. Had even stolen Jeonghan’s ring in front of everyone.

Wonwoo knew him, apparently. Had practically raised him.

Was most likely in love with him.

And he hadn’t stopped Mingyu from talking to Jeonghan. Manipulating him -

 _No,_ he had to remind himself. That was hardly Wonwoo’s fault. Only one man was to blame for that and they would hold him accountable for it and all of his sins. Eventually.

After they unhitched Ulrich, they headed into the main part of the house. Seungcheol swayed every few steps so Jeonghan forced him to sit down so he could eat something. It was all Jeonghan could really do for him and after a night like this, dark thoughts and feelings of hopelessness began to set in; he distracted himself by focusing on the fruit he cut up for his husband since, by now, the servants were all asleep. They sat at the kitchen table, once again, in silence. It was broken only by the sounds of Seungcheol eating.

And then he let out a sigh.

Jeonghan knew what kind of sigh it was; he wished to discuss something but was not willing to take the first step. He could see it in Seungcheol’s hard eyes. So he decided to do it. “What’s the matter?” he asked softly, reaching out to touch Seungcheol’s scarred cheek, eyes drifting to the bloodied pieces of fabric wrapped around his arm and leg. “We ought to find you some real bandages.”

“That can wait,” he said, falling quiet afterwards. He just _looked_ at Jeonghan, as if Jeonghan could read minds. As if he knew everything that was wrong.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, and hopelessness edged its way into his voice, trying to poison his thoughts. “I won’t know what’s wrong unless you tell me, love.”

Seungcheol sighed heavily and looked away from him then, head turned to the side; Jeonghan brought his hand back to his lap. The muscles in Seungcheol’s jaw worked beneath his skin, and whatever he wanted to say must have been bad.

Jeonghan could only guess.

“Are you still in love with him?” Seungcheol finally murmured, after a few agonizing moments, and Jeonghan’s heart sank.

Of course he knew who _him_ was. Of course he knew what had brought this on, and he also knew it would be coming eventually. But it still brought tears to his eyes and he shifted away as well, pressing deeper into the chair, trying to curl into himself. How could he answer that? It was a question Jeonghan had asked himself plenty of times before but he’d never been able to figure it out? A better question, he supposed, was had he ever truly been in love with Mingyu before? Or had that just been some heady concoction of lust, friendship, and loneliness?

In his silence, Seungcheol continued. “You didn’t want me to hurt him,” he said, his voice soft but clipped, as if he was holding back. “You - you stepped between us and tried to protect him - “

“I was _trying_ to protect _you,”_ Jeonghan whispered, meeting his gaze through blurring tears.

Seungcheol met his gaze for a moment before glancing away again, down at the table separating them. “Perhaps that was part of it, but I saw the way you looked at him.”

His voice was bitter, full of a venom Jeonghan had never heard directed at him, and it… it reminded him of… Heaving a shaky breath, attempting to force those thoughts away because Seungcheol was _not_ Mingyu, Jeonghan shook his head as he wrapped his arms around himself. Trying to deny, trying to defend himself and what he could not comprehend. “I-I… you don’t understand - “

“Then make me understand, Jeonghan. I thought you hated him.”

“It’s not that simple.” He tried to breathe through the panic that was now beginning to grip his body, bringing his feet to rest on the chair, knees to his chest. Even like this he didn’t feel small enough, protected enough. “I don’t - I - “

A chair creaked; Seungcheol must have stood up. “How could it not be simple?” His voice was far from clipped now; no, his emotions were clear as he spoke, bringing him to a volume that Jeonghan did not like. “He’s been manipulating you for years, Jeonghan. He’s hurt so many, including your husband, your friends. How could you hold even an ounce of love for that man still? That monster?”

Everything seemed to be shaking, spinning, spiraling out of Jeonghan’s control and he still struggled to breathe through the panic holding, squeezing his throat. His heart pounded in his ears but it wasn’t enough to drown Seungcheol’s words - _stop,_ he tried but the words would not come, he wanted Seungcheol to hold him, please -

“I don’t care what he says,” Seungcheol went on, “what he tells you. He’s _lying_ to you _,_ manipulating you. And if you go back to him he will hurt you, Jeonghan. He has before - “

“Stop!”

The word, wrung aching and hoarse from Jeonghan’s throat, hung in the air between them for several quiet moments. He could not look at Seungcheol, could not bring himself to open the eyes he’d squeezed shut. Then, even in Seungcheol’s silence, breathing still proved difficult and he wanted to disappear. Wanted to be free of the pain he felt, the confusion and stress wearing away at him. And now, to feel this way in his husband’s presence? _Because_ of his husband?

“Hannie,” and Seungcheol’s voice broke. “Darling, I’m sorry. Please look at me.”

He couldn’t - God, why did he feel like this? Why was he such a disappointment? Why couldn’t he love his husband the way Seungcheol loved him?

“You’re - you’re panicking, love. Just try to breathe. With me, okay? Like we’ve always done.”

Somewhere above the pounding of his heart, of blood in his ears, Jeonghan latched onto the way Seungcheol breathed. Slow and steady. Whether he meant to or not, he tried to emulate it, tried to follow his husband’s instructions… and soon he calmed down. His muscles loosened and the storm in his head and his heart wound down into something softer. Yet it still bore down on him, his nerves.

“I’m so sorry,” Seungcheol whispered. “I don’t know what came over me but… God, it doesn’t matter because I did this to you. Made you feel like this. And I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

Platitudes rose up his throat, from years of taking the blame solely for himself, even if he didn’t mean them. “It’s okay - “

“It’s _not_ okay,” Seungcheol said rather emphatically, and Jeonghan knew he was right. “I should’ve been more attentive. I just…” He sat knelt down beside Jeonghan, on the cold kitchen floor, and looked up with tears in those big, beautiful eyes. “I feel so helpless, Jeonghan. And not because of you, but because of him. The things he does, what he’s done before. What I know he plans to do. He _scares_ me and there’s nothing I can do about it, about him. And - and to see you looking at him the way you had, to have you stepping in between us, even for my sake… then Wonwoo’s tale.” He exhaled heavily, a warm puff against Jeonghan’s skin. “No, there’s no excuses. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. I’m sorry, darling.”

Jeonghan took a shaky breath in the same moment that a few tears slipped from Seungcheol’s eyes. It wounded him as much as everything else, but the way Seungcheol leaned into his hand when he reached out to touch his cheek wounded him even more. “I wish I could explain it,” he murmured, “but I can’t. I don’t know why I still feel so drawn to him. I don’t know why the thought of you… hurting him…”

“You don’t have to explain it,” Seungcheol said as he reached for Jeonghan’s already outstretched hand. He kissed it softly, lips forming a pattern as they brushed across his skin. “It… I was just frustrated, and taking it out on you and I shouldn’t have. God, I messed up…”

“I’m not mad at you.” He meant it, of course he did. All of this was so difficult for them both; Jeonghan couldn’t even imagine being in Seungcheol’s position, dealing with this. So he pulled his hand from Seungcheol’s mouth and brought him up for a gentle kiss. Strong arms wrapping around his middle, Jeonghan allowed himself to sink into Seungcheol’s lap, wind fingers through his hair. The few candles they’d lit were already beginning to flicker, casting a beautiful, shadowed glow across Seungcheol’s skin.

In that moment, Jeonghan fell in love.

Of course, he was already in love with Seungcheol, had already pledged himself to him for life and all eternity - but this was different. This was a moment where they were both at their weakest; when the broken edges of their hearts and souls grated against one another, trying to find that perfect fit. And that was _okay._ Moments like these would make them stronger, even though it seemed so hopeless right now.

“I can’t keep living like this,” he whispered, meeting Seungcheol’s gaze in the candlelight. “It’s killing me.”

“I know.” He leaned in, closing the distance between them to press kisses against Jeonghan’s cheek. “I know, and I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Nor is it yours.”

Jeonghan looked away, because he wasn’t sure he could agree with that, and Seungcheol’s mouth effectively fell to his jaw. He kissed his skin with reverence, though Jeonghan could tell he was holding back. It was in his hands, the way they gripped Jeonghan’s sides; it was in his trembling breaths, how they glanced off of Jeonghan’s neck. But it wasn’t quite enough to distract Jeonghan. _Nor is it yours._ How long would it take for him to realize that? How much longer would he keep defending Mingyu?

When would all of this just go away?

“Come on,” Seungcheol murmured against the hollow of his throat. “We need to rest.”

Supported by his husband’s strong, broad form, Jeonghan made it upstairs. Seungcheol helped him undress and then into bed, joining him a few moments later after he’d doused the candlelight. Almost immediately, as if drawn to him, Jeonghan scooted closer. He buried his face in Seungcheol’s warm, naked skin, sighing as he was held so tightly.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispered again, into the darkness. “I know you’re stressed and - and scared, just like me. But… you have to be patient with me.”

“I know, darling,” and he sounded like he was in pain. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand my own feelings. I don’t know why I can’t just… give him up. But I’m not doing it on purpose. And I would never, ever choose him over you. Even if it cost me my own life.”

Seungcheol sighed and kissed the top of his head. “Jeonghan…”

“I would rather die than be his again.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Seungcheol said.

Jeonghan believed him. With all his mending heart and soul, he trusted Seungcheol to keep him away from such harm. Foolish as it might have been. Foolish as Seungcheol often was when it came to those moments.

Jeonghan kissed him then, slowly and deeply. It was one of those kisses that seemed to send sparks through his body, one of those kisses that made him so aware of the lack of clothing between them. Perhaps it wasn’t right for the moment; perhaps the last thing Jeonghan needed was the fleeting distraction sex could bring. But he _wanted_ it. He wanted the way Seungcheol touched him, wanted to lay beneath his husband. Wanted this physical moment of love, in hopes that it might strip the darkness, the shadows that tried to cling to him.

He was scared and aching and needed his husband.

“Seungcheol,” he whispered against his mouth.

“I know,” and he shifted their bodies so that Jeonghan lay under him, before he pulled away completely to get the oil.

Of course, doing so in the dark proved difficult - he uttered a few curses as he stubbed his toe on the bedframe and it was enough to bring a soft, albeit choked, laugh from Jeonghan’s throat. Then they came back together and there was a moment in which Jeonghan felt suspended, lifeless and immortal. Seungcheol kissed him with a fervent sort of heat that he felt in every crevice of his body, a shiver wracking through him as Seungcheol pressed his legs apart, moans muffled in their kiss.

Seungcheol needed Jeonghan as much as Jeonghan needed him, it seemed.

A few seconds later, the press of Seungcheol’s fingers, slick and warm, against his entrance ripped a moan from Jeonghan’s throat and he opened up for his husband. Slowly, gently, they became one and Jeonghan clung to him. He moved with Seungcheol’s body, their broken moans and ragged breaths thunderous in the quiet of the night. Hands trembling as they tried to touch, to ground, to prove that they were alive, that they had this moment, if nothing else.

There was a desperate tinge to Seungcheol’s thrusts, the way in which he held Jeonghan to him, that he’d never felt before. It brought them both to the edge quickly, everything inside Jeonghan tensing, aching with pleasure and need - the ebb and flow between their bodies, the way they moved in familiar tandem, Seungcheol holding him down as he climbed higher and higher… and then he let go. Seungcheol came with him, spilling hot and wet into him, Jeonghan’s name a rough, shattered sound as it crossed his lips.

They cleaned up and then found their rightful places in each other’s arms, exchanging “I love you”s; the last thing Jeonghan remembered before falling asleep was pressing a kiss against his husband’s forehead.

But it wouldn’t be enough to quell the nightmares he felt threatening, pulsing in the back of his mind.


	14. thirteen: lacrimosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we got a long one today, about 9.7k!
> 
> tw: past parent death, anxiety, manipulative behavior, blood, non consensual touching.
> 
> also!! reminder!! while involving real people, this au is a work of fiction!! which means i view said real people as simply characters, and i do not see these characters as accurate reflections of their irl counterparts. they are here simply to fill a role, to tell a story.

**thirteen: lacrimosa**

If there was one thing Mingyu was good at, it was hiding. He’d learned to do it at the orphanage, learned to keep himself away from sight lest the parents-to-be or the other children saw him. Then, better yet, he’d learned to do it here at the opera house. How to creep between shadows, how to use the rafters to obscure himself. He knew every inch of this place like the back of his head, could tell you which floorboards squeaked, which pathways held the least amount of light or were less traveled. Now, he used that knowledge to his advantage as he watched Choi Seungcheol from a rather secluded alcove. It was the same one he’d hidden in months ago, the first time he’d attempted to kill Seungcheol. Mingyu himself was shrouded in darkness and he worked to soften his breathing as the Vicomte caught up to him.

Slowly bleeding from two wounds, dripping red in a trail across the floor, Seungcheol must have known that he failed. What a show he’d put on minutes ago at the masquerade, in front of so many, only to take his final bow now, alone between the dancers’ dormitories, lit solely by struggling candlelight. Absolutely at Mingyu’s mercy.

He took joy in it, of course he did. Still clutching Jeonghan’s ring in his free hand, watching Seungcheol sway on his feet as he halted, eyes wide as they peered through losing light - Mingyu smiled to himself. The Vicomte had no chance like this, and Mingyu intended on using that to his advantage as well. He intended on taking his time; he’d finish what he started all those months ago - except Seungcheol would not survive now.

_Jeonghan._

Jeonghan would be angry for a while, of course, but he’d move on eventually. He’d realize that the love he had for Seungcheol was nothing more than ephemeral - and then he would come back to Mingyu. Where he belonged.

With a pathetic sounding moan, Seungcheol fell to his hands and knees, dropping his rapier. It clattered to the floor in a thunderous tone and Mingyu tightened his grip on his own. Adrenaline rushed through his system, creating such a heavy, heady concoction that he did not notice the other footsteps until it was almost too late.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Wonwoo appeared, some dancer trailing close behind him, and he immediately reached for the Vicomte. Helped him stand, held him tight as the dancer ripped strips of fabric from his shirt, and wrapped them around his bleeding wounds.

Out of nowhere Wonwoo appeared and saved Seungcheol from Mingyu once again.

Watching it unfold before him, hearing the words they spoke - _“Why did you come after me?” “To stop you from getting yourself killed.”_ \- anger rose up inside of Mingyu. Anger he could not control and did not want to. It threatened his composure, his self-control - oh how he longed to step out from these shadows and have his revenge regardless -

And then Wonwoo met his gaze.

It was merely for a split second, and perhaps just a coincidence - there was no way Wonwoo could see him back here, like this in the darkness - but it was enough to root Mingyu in place. If only for a moment.

He watched as they carried Seungcheol off to the boys’ dormitory… and then Mingyu fled once more. Sheathing his own rapier, he made his way through this opera house that he knew so well, down, down, down to the basement, to the vaults, to his dwelling. To the only place in the world he felt safe.

Only there did he break.

Only there, in the flickering candlelight, in the home he was forced to occupy, did Mingyu _fracture._

He tore the mask from his face, the wig along with it, and howled in his anger. He grabbed whatever he could get his hands on and threw them across the room, against the stone walls - he listened to the sharp sounds of candelabras breaking, of nameless trinkets shattering like glass. They scored the storm whirling inside him, urging dark thoughts as they came -

How _could_ they?

How could Wonwoo betray him once more?

How could Seungcheol think he had any claim to Jeonghan?

How could the damned managers think so little of him, as if they weren’t terrified of every word that came out of his mouth?

How could… how could Jeonghan…

Breathing heavily, he came face to face with his mirror - and his reflection. It stared back at him, a scarred, ragged, panting, _ugly_ man that Mingyu did not recognize. No, this man was a beast. A monster. He was angry and wild and frightening -

If he was going to get Jeonghan back, he needed to reign it in. The way he had for so long in Jeonghan’s presence, terrified of exposing his true self…

He turned towards the organ, reaching for his usual mask, the weight of it familiar and calming in his shaking hands. He retrieved his wig from the ground and fit it into place, smoothing it back against his head. And then he faced his reflection once more. Breathing calmed, hands steady at his side, he looked better. The ugly part of his face covered again, hair pushed out of his eyes… he looked like the man he saw in his mind.

Mingyu closed his eyes and breathed.

Jeonghan was there, in the darkness. _His_ Jeonghan, dark circles under his eyes, a gauntness to his cheeks, hair chopped shorter than Mingyu had ever seen it - his Jeonghan, with Choi Seungcheol’s ring on a chain around his neck. His Jeonghan, married, pledged himself to another.

Just the thought sent a new jolt of anger through his body and he opened his eyes once more.

His reflection came into view again, tensed and seething. How could Jeonghan do this to him? After everything Mingyu had done for him, after everything they had shared… after the love they held for each other, for so long… he’d just given it all up. Wed himself to a man who did not truly love him, who wanted him only for his beauty, for his voice and the things he could achieve.

Something small glinting in the lowlight caught his eye and he turned towards it. The ring. It sat sadly, resting beside the skeletal masquerade mask, discarded in Mingyu’s rage. He moved to it, ground crunching beneath his boots, and knelt to pick it up. It was a beautiful, no doubt expensive thing; the center was encrusted with diamonds that ran the width of the band, the gold shining and pure. Its elegance was rivaled only by Jeonghan’s own, the perfect ring for him.

And then, engraved along the inside of the band…

_My love, my angel._

Mingyu breathed in and then out, clutching the ring tightly in his fist. Jeonghan _belonged_ to him - he just needed to be reminded of that. And oh, Mingyu would remind him. He’d remind them all where they stood with him.

The cold January air came as a bit of a shock when the driver opened the carriage door. Seungcheol held tightly to Jeonghan as they exited, as the chilly winds whipped through their hair, their scarves. Jeonghan did not say a word, nor did Seungcheol; they made their way to the steps of the opera house in silence broken only by the crunching of snow beneath their boots. Two nights ago, the foyer had been the center of wealth and opulence; now it was all but empty, morning light casting long shadows beneath the sculptures and candelabras. Staff worked tirelessly around them, cleaning every surface to spotlessness - but they stood up to bow whenever Seungcheol and Jeonghan walked by.

It left Jeonghan blushing (even though Seungcheol had indeed reminded him sometime at the lakehouse that Jeonghan was now a noble, through marriage) but they continued, up the grand staircase - toward an ever-growing cacophony of voices. With each step the noise grew, and Jeonghan held tight to Seungcheol’s sleeve with white-knuckled fingers. His anxiety had only thrived since the night of the masquerade; all the progress he’d made after Taewoo’s death - however slow it had been - was all but dashed now, and it kept Seungcheol up at night.

If he hadn’t felt helpless before, he very well did now.

What could he do, when half of his husband’s fears came from intangible shadows? What could he do, when the phantom that haunted them both wanted him dead? What could he do, except his very best in being patient for so many things?

It wasn’t enough and he knew it, but he had to pretend. For both of their sakes.

He pressed Jeonghan closer, pretending not to notice the way his bones shifted beneath the layers he wore. Two days without so much as a few bites at dinner were starting to take their toll on him and his already thin body.

 _“I can’t keep living like this,”_ he’d said, looking at Seungcheol with all the despair in the world. _“It’s killing me.”_

Now, Jeonghan shuddered when they entered the auditorium - and the discord reached a fever pitch.

On the stage stood several familiar figures, ten of them, to be exact. Each of them looked as tense as the last, speaking over each other to the point of yelling - until they stopped. In a single, quiet breath, ten heads swiveled in Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s direction. Jeonghan immediately stiffened even more, but Seungcheol gently urged him forward with a heavy sigh.

“You’re late,” Jihoon said as they neared the stage, a bite to his voice Seungcheol didn’t particularly care for - until he noticed the thick, leatherbound book opened on his music stand, and then it made sense. The book was as familiar to Seungcheol as everyone else here, even though it’d only been in their lives for a short time.

“Knock it off, Jihoon,” Minghao snapped, and as he approached them, flanked by Junhui and Chan, his face was soft. “Are you all right?” he asked of Jeonghan.

Jeonghan sought comfort in the form of clutching Seungcheol’s coat; all of these people had been there, at the masquerade. They’d met his angel of music, had seen what he could do to Jeonghan. Granted, as far as Seungcheol knew, none of it had been explained to them - but whatever stories and theories they’d concocted were evidently enough to warrant their sympathies. Their pity.

“I’m fine,” Jeonghan whispered, not meeting a single gaze. Not Chan’s, not Junhui’s, not even Wonwoo’s.

So those gazes turned to Seungcheol and he sighed once more. "We’re here for rehearsal. As I assume you all are as well.”

Scoffs went up among them, eyes falling in disdain to Mingyu’s opera where it rested on Jihoon’s music stand. “There’s nothing to rehearse,” Jisoo said, his usually calm, collected voice now clipped. “This ‘opera’ - if you can even call it that - is a mess.”

Wonwoo sighed. “It’s just - “

“Stop trying to defend it!” Seungkwan said, stalking towards him with a repent-looking Hansol at his side. He carried a tiredness in his shoulders that most of them held too; the exception being Seungkwan, animated and in Wonwoo’s face. “It’s bullshit! I mean, have you even seen the size of my part?”

Mutters chained through the group, eye rolls too; Junhui stepped towards his lover and kneaded a hand down his taut back. How long had this arguing been going on, Seungcheol wondered?

“That’s why you hate it,” Chan shot back, youthful defiance in his eyes. “You didn’t get the lead!”

“Who does he want as lead, then?” Seungcheol asked loudly enough to put a stop to the bickering, but he immediately regretted it when every single gaze landed on Jeonghan.

Of course he knew in his heart that Mingyu would write an opera with Jeonghan as the lead. Threatening and almost injuring Seungkwan countless times over the years hadn’t been enough to get Jeonghan where he wanted him, so he’d taken matters into his own hands.

As if Jeonghan would ever perform something Mingyu wrote.

He took a shaking breath and looked away, at the floor; in the silence, his deep, erratic breathing was all they could hear.

So Seungcheol changed the subject. Holding his love close still, he asked, “Is the music really so bad?”

“Lyrically, it’s gibberish,” Jihoon said, flipping through the pages on his music stand. “Not to mention the fact that it’s not even in Latin or Greek or Italian or any other foreign language. And it’s obsessively sexual.”

Jeonghan made a noise in the back of his throat that seemed to reverberate through Seungcheol’s body too. He could only imagine the words Mingyu had written, with Jeonghan in mind.

“The audience is going to hate it,” Jisoo added. "They prefer operas more when they don't have to understand them."

Jihoon nodded solemnly, turning pages still. The further he went, the more his face contorted in a scowl, features drawn tight. “Musically, it’s… outlandish. Absolutely absurd. Nothing classical or even really melodic about it.”

Wonwoo sighed once more. “Would you speak that way in front of the composer, Jihoon?”

Their eyes met as Jihoon stilled his movements; once again the theater descended into silence. Once again the only sound that could be heard - or that Seungcheol could hear, rather - was that of Jeonghan’s trembling breaths. The way he tried, in vain, to compose them and himself. It broke Seungcheol’s heart and he wanted to take him far away from here; the last place he ought to be was here anyway, because of his anxiety… but he needed to keep busy. Needed familiarity and routine.

But at what cost?

“The composer isn’t here,” Seungkwan said, though his sharp voice did not break Jihoon and Wonwoo’s heavy stares. “So what does it ma - “

“Are you sure of that, monsieur?” Wonwoo asked coolly, finally looking away from Jihoon to meet Seungkwan’s gaze. “Is he not _always_ here, watching, listening, from where we cannot see?"

Seungkwan did not speak; he merely ducked his head.

Jeonghan turned towards Seungcheol to bury his face in his neck; Seungcheol stroked his knotted hair gently, slowly, trying to distract him with soft murmurs in his ear. But he doubted they were doing the trick.

Seungkwan’s quietness brought yet another sigh to Wonwoo’s lips and he turned towards the rest of them. “Instead of complaining, why don’t we just put his opera on? You heard him, the other night. He is capable of things you can’t even imagine. So let’s just - “

“I found a note,” Jihoon said above him.

Sure enough, he held a familiar white envelope in his hands; each of them groaned or sighed upon seeing it. Even Seungcheol.

As Wonwoo went to retrieve it (since no one else made any movements to), Chan came over. Where there had been a fire in his eyes moments ago, now he just looked lost and scared as he took Jeonghan in, as he reached out to comfort his best friend.

Jeonghan turned his head from Seungcheol’s neck and stroked Chan’s cheek with a pale hand. A pale hand that trembled, that Seungcheol knew was cold as ice. Like the hand of death. Indeed, Jeonghan himself looked touched by death; claimed by it, captive to it. Judging by the look in Chan’s eyes, he noticed it too. How could he not?

Minghao’s hard voice caught Seungcheol’s attention and he looked to where Wonwoo stood, practically center stage, opened envelope in his hands, eyes moving quickly over the inked parchment. “What’s he want now?” Minghao asked of him.

Wonwoo looked up as he apparently finished reading; his eyes met every single gaze until they stopped on Jeonghan for the briefest of moments. “If you all were fed up with the other set of instructions… well, you won’t find any satisfaction here.”

Groans went up around Seungcheol and he shifted to kiss Jeonghan’s forehead. “What does it say, Wonwoo?”

“First, he… he demands that Seungkwan learn to act.”

Unsurprisingly this was met by protests from the tenor himself; loud ones at that. It reminded Seungcheol of almost a year ago when they’d received all of those different notes from Mingyu regarding _Il Muto._ How strange, how upsetting it all had been that March. And now look at them.

Hansol worked quietly, diligently, at comforting his lover; gentle murmurs of “Kwannie, hey, look at me please,” and squeezes of his hands that eventually allowed Wonwoo to continue - though Seungkwan still muttered under his breath.

And continue Wonwoo did, speaking in that emotionless voice he had when Mingyu was involved. It used to leave Seungcheol feeling suspicious; now he knew more. Now he knew _why._ “He says that all Seungkwan knows how to do is strut around the stage,” Wonwoo read. “And that that will not suffice for this opera, even in Seungkwan’s… small part.”

To his credit, Hansol looked just as offended as his lover.

In fact, Seungcheol felt offended as well. Sure, Seungkwan could be a lot at times but he was incredibly talented - in singing _and_ acting. Who was Mingyu to say otherwise?

“As for Jisoo,” Wonwoo sighed, and the other man looked at him evenly, “all he wishes from you is to… keep up with Jeonghan.”

Jisoo raised a brow and glanced at Jeonghan. “I’d take that note in stride if Jeonghan could keep up with _me,”_ he said, not unkindly; Jeonghan still flinched. Just a bit. “Does the phantom give any instructions as to who is supposed to train Jeonghan for a role like this?”

“He does,” Wonwoo said quietly, strained, eyes knowing as they landed on Jeonghan. “He wants you to return to him, Jeonghan. He… he says he still has much to teach you, that your pride stands in the way -”

“His pride,” Seungcheol scoffed, unable to help himself. But it fit with Mingyu’s narrative, he figured. Blaming someone else for his own sins. So he could continue believing himself the hero of his story, someone who deserved redemption.

Beside him, Jeonghan trembled. “No,” he managed, clinging to Seungcheol even harder than before; he could all but hear the creaking of his bones as his fingers tightened around his coat. “I won’t go back to him, I can’t - “

Now it was Seungcheol’s turn to comfort his own lover; swallowing his anger, he shifted so that he could meet Jeonghan’s wide-eyed gaze like he had a hundred times before. He stroked his gaunt cheeks like he had a hundred times before. He kissed relief into his skin like he had a hundred times before - wondering when it would stop. Wondering when the haunting would be over and they could finally breathe. “No one’s making you, darling. We can find you another tutor. It’s okay, I promise.”

 _“No,”_ he insisted - and pulled away from Seungcheol completely, tears in his eyes, chapped lips quivering. “I’m - I’m not doing this. I _can’t.”_

Unspoken words settled over them in silence; _you must,_ Seungcheol wanted to say, and he knew it weighed on the others’ tongues as well. If they tried to put this show on without following Mingyu’s instructions to the letter… the last time that had happened, it’d resulted in a death.

What would happen this time?

Indeed, what would happen if Jeonghan took the stage?

Just like that, something sparked in Seungcheol’s head. An idea. He tried to follow it as Jeonghan looked at him in misery, in pain. He tried to make sense of it, the way it would tear Jeonghan apart if he merely voiced it… but he had to.

“We’ve all been blind,” he said, loud enough to be heard by everyone. He felt their eyes on him, felt the weight of Jeonghan’s anguish, but he continued. “This - the opera - could be the chance we’ve been waiting for to take him down. The phantom.”

He was met by several raised eyebrows, intrigued stares. “We’re listening,” Soonyoung said from Jihoon’s side. “Go on.”

Seungcheol nodded, if only to himself. At least he had their attention. “We’ll play his game, perform his work,” Seungcheol said - and out of the corner of his gaze, he saw Jeonghan deflate. It broke his heart once more, throat tightening with tears he longed to shed on his husband’s behalf, but they would do no good. This… this was the way to end it all. Forever. “But if Jeonghan sings, no doubt the phantom will be there to see it. Like he always is.”

A memory sprung to mind; as hazy as it was brief, of Mingyu sitting in his box five, watching Jeonghan’s debut with so much obsessive rapture it’d worried Seungcheol even then.

“We’ll secure the doors,” Wonwoo said, eyes brightening in understanding. “even the… the hidden ones. So he can’t leave.”

“We can bring in the police,” Soonyoung added.

“And make certain they’re armed,” Seungcheol said as he glanced from person to person, trying to gauge reactions, thoughts, ideas. But at least Soonyoung and Wonwoo were on his side.

Because Jeonghan would not be.

Even before looking at his husband, Seungcheol knew it. How could he support an idea like this, one that forced him to do what he did not want to do? The betrayal was evident in his big eyes, wet with tears, and Seungcheol reached for him once more. He ached to repent, ached for forgiveness he did not deserve. “Darling, please - “

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, stepping out of Seungcheol’s reach. How strong he was, even breaking like this. “I ca - I can’t do it, Seungcheol. N-no - please don’t make me - ”

More tears climbed up Seungcheol’s throat and he swallowed against them; he would not break. Not here. Not in front of everyone else - not while Jeonghan was breaking too. “Jeonghan, my love - “

“I can’t!” he cried, his own tears finally spilling over, and Seungcheol’s soul yearned for him, yearned to comfort him, to take his pain away. Pain he had caused; he seemed to be doing that more and more lately. “He’ll take me, Seungcheol. I know he will. I-I…”

In his panic, he allowed Seungcheol to finally step close, to finally hold him. But his thin frame simply sagged in Seungcheol’s arms, feeling so small and fragile. All around them were some of their closest friends and he could feel them looking on in their own sadness, too. What were they thinking, a part of him wondered?

“Nothing will happen to you, my love,” he whispered against the top of Jeonghan’s head, and like every other time he said it, he meant it. Of course he did. But fate would see his promises broken, it seemed. “I’ll keep you safe, I swear it.”

“God, but what if you can’t?” Jeonghan choked out, his sobs muffled in Seungcheol’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you, Seungcheol. K-kill you. He hates you, as much as he wants me. And I know he won’t let anything stand in his way this time.” He looked up with wide, trembling eyes, tear tracks streaking his thin cheeks - how could Seungcheol do this to him? How could he hurt his husband like this? “It won’t ever end if he has me again. Seungcheol - “

Guilt seized his heart in a grip that left him breathless, aching, and he couldn’t help it; desperate to atone for his sins he took Jeonghan’s face in his hands and kissed him. It was a kiss better suited for solitude, but Jeonghan responded to it all the same, clutching Seungcheol’s wrists, pressing closer as his tears gathered against Seungcheol’s thumbs.

“Look at me, Jeonghan,” he whispered when they parted. “We have no other choice, my love. While he still lives, he will haunt us until we’re dead. You know that.”

Jeonghan shook his head as best as he could, still held between Seungcheol’s hands. More tears leaked from his beautiful eyes and Seungcheol tried his best to wipe them away. “I can’t do it,” he whispered. “God, just the thought of singing makes me sick, Seungcheol. And singing his words, knowing he wrote them for me, knowing what he wants from me…”

“I agree,” Wonwoo said softly - when just moments before…

Seungcheol turned to look at him, keeping one hand on Jeonghan’s still-damp cheek. “Wonwoo - “

“It’s too risky,” he said with a finality Seungcheol hated. “For all of us.”

“But if we don’t do as he asks,” Soonyoung countered, “won’t there be worse consequences involved?”

"Is the alternative worth it, though?" Hansol asked quietly from his spot at Seungkwan's side.

“Think about what you’re asking Jeonghan to do!” Chan piped up as he stepped forward, so small and young. Just like Jeonghan. “Whatever the phantom’s done to him is obviously awful, and asking Jeonghan to sing his opera - “

Jihoon huffed, like a parent dealing with an errant child. “What else are we supposed to do? If this gets rid of him, I say we do it.”

“I agree,” Seungkwan said. “He’s been running around far too long - “

“Do you even have an ounce of empathy in your body, Seungkwan?” Junhui demanded, and it was the first time Seungcheol had seen such a departure from his normally even-tempered persona. But he was strung to his breaking point, no doubt. A mending lover clinging to him silently; a shattered friend standing before him. “Look at Jeonghan! He’s been crying since he and Seungcheol came in a few minutes ago. Or don’t you remember what happened after _Il Muto?_ The way he just - “

The more they argued, the quieter Jeonghan became. The more he burrowed into himself, wincing at the words they said as if they had the power to strike at him. And perhaps they did; perhaps he felt them twisting around in his heart the way Seungcheol felt Jeonghan’s sobs moments before. How Seungcheol hurt for him; he stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak -

And then he heard it.

That soft, dark voice, lilting and longing as it called Jeonghan’s name from the rafters.

_“Is he not always here, watching, listening, from where we cannot see?"_

There came a broken noise from behind Seungcheol, torn from Jeonghan’s chapped lips - and a moment later he was dashing towards the auditorium doors. Breezing past empty rows of chairs, desperate to get away from him.

Seungcheol called out to him too, but to no avail; there was no chance Jeonghan would return to him, not with Mingyu lurking around. Just like Wonwoo said, he was always, _always_ there - just like Seungcheol said, as long as he lived he would not leave them alone. The thought brought a rough sound from the back of his throat, something like a snarl, and he stalked towards the back of the stage where the rafters could be seen clearly.

There he stood, shrouded in darkness, high above Seungcheol, like the angel he claimed to be. An angel of death, perhaps. Staring down at him in a way that ought to make him afraid. Not anymore. “It is to be war between us, then,” he spat, loud enough that Mingyu no doubt could hear him. “But this time, phantom, the disaster will be _yours.”_

Mingyu regarded him for another silent moment before whirling away, like the storm he was.

Seungcheol stepped away from the back of the stage, wishing he felt more satisfied. But how could he, after the last fifteen minutes? So much had happened and he’d practically driven his husband away - he needed to go after him, make sure he was okay -

“Monsieur le Vicomte?”

He looked towards the group of people waiting for him; this group of friends and acquaintances who had seen all of this. Who must have been formulating so much in their heads, creating stories out of that which they did not know or understand. “Yes?”

Seokmin cleared his throat. “Are you sure Jeonghan will agree to this?”

They all looked at him with expectant eyes - all of them hoping Jeonghan would take their side, whatever it may be. God, it was simply exhausting and Seungcheol ran a hand down his face, weariness settling in his bones even though he’d only been awake for two hours. “He has to. It’s the only way to stop the phantom from hurting him, or anyone else, ever again.”

“Is he all right?” Jisoo asked softly, glancing towards the doors Jeonghan had burst through moments before. “I… I didn’t know his relationship with the phantom was so…”

He trailed off, letting the words hang in anticipative silence, and Seungcheol sighed. “There is not much I can say because it’s not my story to tell, but… whatever you're thinking, assume it's true."

The others exchanged glances, Junhui squeezed Wonwoo's hand silently.

"Jeonghan will be okay," Seungcheol said softly. "Especially once _he_ is gone.”

After that, Seungcheol moved between the group of them and followed the way Jeonghan left. With any luck Jeonghan was simply waiting by the carriage and just wanted to go home, rehearsal be damned. But of course, Seungcheol was not so lucky. When he stepped out into the stables off the side of the opera house, he found Ulrich untacked, being tended to by the coachman, and the carriage just outside the main doors. Jeonghan was nowhere to be found.

Paranoia seized his body and he breathed through it, slowly, deeply.

“You haven’t seen Jeonghan, have you?” he asked of the coachman, who frowned.

“He came out here, yes. Took one of the opera house’s coaches, and I overheard him tell the coachman to head for the cemetery.”

The cemetery. Seungcheol too frowned and crossed the stables to his man and his horse, nerves shaking his hands, his fingers. Mingyu had fled as well, what if…? “He didn’t say anything to you?”

“Not a word. I assumed you knew where he was going.”

“No,” Seungcheol said, reaching for Ulrich’s bridle. “Which cemetery did he say he was going to?”

“Ah, the Père Lachaise, I believe.”

The name resonated with familiarity through Seungcheol’s mind; of course. He should’ve known.

As they spoke, he made quick work of pulling the bridle up Ulrich’s head, even securing the bit in a timely manner. The horse did not fight him at all and Seungcheol rewarded him with a few neck pats before climbing atop him, bareback. The coachman looked up at him with a raised eyebrow as Seungcheol reached for the leather reins.

“Is Monsieur Jeonghan all right?” the coachman asked.

The second time in a manner of minutes. “Yes,” Seungcheol said, hoping it was true. But something gnawed at him from the inside; something that told him he needed to hurry and find his husband.

With that, he was off.

The coachman, dressed head to toe in black, seemed to push the poor horse as fast as he could go, as if they ran from something. He kept his hooded face from Jeonghan's view, but Jeonghan did not care all that much, not with everything weighing on his mind. The chill in the air, whipping around him, seemed to help some. It made him more alert on this journey to the cemetery, helped clear his head just the slightest bit, and he welcomed it. Getting away from the city and its phantoms would help, as well. Besides, an old friend was waiting for him. One of the only people to whom he could trust his secrets, his thoughts, his heart.

A companion he had not spoken to in over a decade.

The Père Lachaise cemetery was clouded in the early morning fog that had yet to wear off, shrouding the snow-blanketed headstones and statues and mausoleums in an eerie mist that was as familiar as it was foreboding. He had spent many mornings here, in his youth, before he was completely orphaned and since then he had yet to return. Now, as he stepped from the coach and took in the scene before him, it left shivers crawling down his spine.

Perhaps he’d be able to find the peace he needed, here where so many souls had found it for themselves. If not in a cemetery, then where else?

Leaving the coachman behind (who had not said a word the entire ride), Jeonghan walked through the front gates. On a cold, snowy morning like this one, there was not a single person to be found and Jeonghan reveled in the solitude. It was exactly what he needed. Not once in six months had he been allowed to be truly alone - Seungcheol or someone else was always near. Not that Jeonghan didn’t love his husband, did not want him around, but… but sometimes he needed time to himself. To think.

His family’s mausoleum sat near the end of the main road, coated in layers of snow, looming over the tombstones ghostly white. Here his parents and grandparents were buried. Here he had spent hours daily with his mother before she grew too sick herself, just staring at the newly etched name, carved into stone, nowhere near enough to properly convey the life it symbolized. Even now, eleven years on, almost to the day, he could recall exactly what it said.

_Jeonghwan, died January 10th, 1869, aged 34 years, 2 months, and 10 days_

Below that rested another tomb that Jeonghan did not know quite as well, but looking at it hurt all the same.

_Jiyeon, died February 27th, 1869, aged 32 years, 10 months, and 23 days_

Across from them, his paternal grandparents. Names and dates he knew well enough, too, even though he’d never met them.

A deep, profound aching settled over Jeonghan’s chest and he brushed the snow from the bench in front of the mausoleum, where it sat beneath the tomb’s ten steps. This aching brought tears to his eyes and his throat but he did not shed them. No, he merely sat in silence for a few moments, trying to grapple with grief, with lives lost and lives yet to live.

It was too heavy a thing to think about before noon but such was his life now.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” he whispered to the empty, freezing air, to the stone angels that sat unmoving, unfeeling, a few feet across from him. They looked over the first step to the mausoleum, guarding his family’s souls so fiercely, so peacefully. “I wanted to come here but… it was just so hard. You both passed so quickly and I was alone at the opera house and I… I just couldn’t make it.”

He shifted, glancing into the face of one of those angels. It stared back at him coldly; he shivered.

“I miss you both so much,” he said. “There’s… there’s more at stake than I imagined and I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. And I-I miss the way you would comfort me. Mother holding me so tightly, Father giving me advice even when I didn’t ask for it…” Jeonghan smiled to himself as the memories came back; how easily he had taken them for granted. “What I would give for that now, for you to tell me what to do, Father. I… I feel as if I’m torn in a hundred different directions, each one as confusing and scary as the last - I’m so lost and I don’t know what to do.”

If he thought hard enough, _tried_ hard enough, he could remember what it felt like to have his mother’s arms around him. It was a ghostly warmth around his shoulders now, the phantom scent of her rosy perfume in his nostrils. A pressure on his head, as heavy as a shadow, tousling his long hair the way his father used to. His deep, rich voice, always full of wisdom for someone so young. He’d know exactly what to say now, Jeonghan was certain of it.

If only he were actually _here._

Jeonghan forced his tears back once more, speaking around the lump in his throat. “Do you remember, Father, when you - when you were… dying and you said you would send me an angel of music when you passed? You knew how much I loved to sing, and-and dance… how you’d regret it, you said, not being able to help me grow into the singer you wanted me to be. So you promised to send an angel, that he would help me instead, where you could not.”

Once more, his body ached deeply, a boundless sensation that seemed intent on claiming him in its desperation, and he pulled his legs close to him. Boots on the bench, arms wrapped around his knees, he felt like a child. Felt the same fear, the same uncertainty he’d known for so long back then. But he could not blame his father for Mingyu; the words he spoke on his deathbed had merely been for comfort. To ease Jeonghan’s worries and tears. It was one of those stories parents often tell their children, to placate them. Jeonghan knew that now but as a child…

“He came to me, Father,” he murmured, “although he is no angel. He is… he is nothing but a man, a man with much hatred in his heart for too many things. He is dangerous and-and he will hurt me if I let him.”

Jeonghan breathed shakily, and the angels stared back at him, so much anger and sorrow etched into their reticent faces. He wondered if those same emotions were mirrored in his own eyes, as well.

“He has hurt those most important to me,” he continued, “taken the thing I loved most in the world and twisted it into some dark, awful thing. And now I must sing for him, to end his reign of terror. I must risk my life in such a way, simply to win the chance to live, and I… I don’t know if I can do it, Father. The thought scares me. _He_ scares me. But if I don’t do it, he will never stop tormenting me and my friends and my husband. Until he has what he wants.”

Deep down, Jeonghan knew what he should do, what his father would tell him to do.

If only it were so simple.

“Everyone - everyone means well,” he said, scratching at the thick material of his pants, searching the angels’ faces for any measure of compassion or kindness. Of course, he found none. They did not breathe, so how could they feel? “But they don’t understand. How can I betray him so easily? How can I do this thing which will lead to his death? He was my only friend for ten years, Father. He tutored and taught me when no one else would. He saw so much potential in me when I was simply relegated to the chorus…”

He trailed off in a puff of white mist, his words lost to the icy air.

“Of course, for all I know, that could have been a lie.” His voice sounded bitter to his ears and he _felt_ bitter. It was as cold as the fog around him, an unfathomable gnawing at his heart, his very soul. “Oh Father, I wish you were here,” he whispered. “You’d help me, I know. If you were here, I… I wouldn’t feel lost like this.”

Only then did he allow himself to break down; the tears came before he could stop them, racing up his throat until all he could do was let them out. He cried into his hands, deep, wracking sobs that shook his entire body. He cried for Seungcheol - his sweet, patient husband who was trying so hard for him, who was just as tired and anxious and scared as Jeonghan was. He cried for Wonwoo - enduring Mingyu’s abuse and twisted love silently, alone, for so long. He cried for his parents - their strength and wisdom gone too soon. He cried for Mingyu and the person he used to be; for himself and the choice he did not want to make.

He cried for the people he would lose no matter what side he took.

After some time, he heard a voice. It cut through his sobs, familiar and deep and comforting in a way Jeonghan could not place but it was visceral. Instinctual. He knew that voice like he knew the path to this mausoleum, still etched into his mind after so long. With shuddering breaths, Jeonghan raised his head.

Beside the mausoleum, looming above him and the angels, was a figure, shrouded in the cold morning fog. It was too tall, too broad to be who Jeonghan wanted it to be but oh how _badly_ he hoped. How badly he longed to believe.

“Jeonghan,” the figure, dressed head to toe in black, called.

He stood from the bench and peered at the man, trying to make out a face beneath his black hood. Those warm, comforting eyes, full of so much love as they watched him stand in his mother’s arms. Or perhaps, were those different eyes? “Is it - is it really you?” he managed, stepping onto the stone stairs that would lead him to his family, to the figure.

“Of course it is,” the man said. “Would I ever lie to you?”

Jeonghan _knew_ that voice, but his mind was blank. Perhaps it was fear or childish beliefs or profound desperation - this was not real, but God he wanted it to be. Believing the alternative would rend him, he knew it. “It’s really you?”

The figure stayed where it was as Jeonghan approached, snow crunching beneath his boots; he was entranced, innately drawn to this man, in a way he could not explain. But it brought him to chaos once again: in his mind, he knew who the man standing before him was but the aching in his soul was too great, drowning out any logical thought.

Once again, he was torn between his head and his heart.

“Yes,” the figure said. “I know you’re conflicted, child; come to me and I can help you. You know I can.”

Something about his words resonated within Jeonghan; he spoke the truth. But was he a man or an angel? Phantom or friend? The closer he came, the less he seemed to care; here was someone who could help him make sense of the echoes in his head. That was all he needed, wasn't it? “I want to believe you,” he whispered as he took that final step, now level with the figure, a mere few feet between them, “but… but it feels wrong in a way.”

“It’s your mind, Jeonghan,” the man said, reaching a black, gloved hand out towards him. Vaguely, a memory flashed in his mind - of roses with black ribbon around the stems, dying candlelight, secrets and mirrors that led to darkness. But something in him pushed it away, looking into eyes that he knew so well, looking into eyes he used to love. “You're too lost,” he continued, urging Jeonghan forward with his outstretched hand, “too anxious - you can't trust yourself. But you can trust me.”

Jeonghan _had_ trusted him before, trusted him to lead him, guide him, teach him -

His mind beat wildly, relentlessly, trying to remind him of something he was so tired of remembering - _please,_ he just wanted to stop thinking, just for a moment -

He’d trusted this man before, to care for him, comfort him, love him -

“That's right, angel,” he whispered, wrapping his warm, gloved hand around Jeonghan’s cold fingers, “come to me. I’m here.”

A commotion sprung to his ears, then, like he was underwater, watching someone above him calling his name. Like he was drowning, and they wanted to help him - yes _please_ help, his mind begged -

It was enough to draw his attention away from the man before him and he turned to see another familiar figure, dismounting his beautiful white horse near the angels. Dark, thick curls hanging in big eyes as he rushed up the steps, pale scars marring one side of his handsome face -

“Seungcheol?” he asked in the same moment his husband drew his sword.

The man’s hand tightened, squeezing his own, trying to bring him back - oh how Jeonghan wanted, wanted to just forget -

“Jeonghan, don’t,” Seungcheol managed, staring at the man with so much anger in his eyes. “Whatever you believe, this man - this thing - is not your father. Nor any angel he claims to be. You know that."

Behind him, the man snarled and let go of Jeonghan’s hand - only to wrap his own around Jeonghan’s throat. His grip was tight and strong, _familiar_ as he pulled Jeonghan back against him. As he breathed, hot and rough, against his skin. As he spoke harshly, straight out of Jeonghan’s worst nightmares.

“You’re as insistent as you are foolish, Vicomte,” Mingyu snapped, holding Jeonghan so close, every word he uttered turning Jeonghan’s blood to ice.

How could he have been so stupid, so foolish, so naive?

How could he have let himself do this?

Mingyu’s body was strong and warm in a way that made his insides churn - in nausea and… and something else, something wicked that he never wanted to feel again. Something instinctive, that only Mingyu could draw from him.

“I could say the same of you, phantom.” Seungcheol tightened his grip on his rapier, eyes flicking between him and Jeonghan. How worried he was - God, Jeonghan should not have come out here. Of course Mingyu followed him here; there was no escaping him. Ever.

“Please,” he tried, knowing it would be in vain, reaching up to pry Mingyu’s stone fingers from his throat.

Seungcheol watched his every movement with darkened eyes; his entire body was tensed, no doubt waiting for the right moment to strike. “You cannot win his love by making him your prisoner,” he spat. “Surely you know that.”

“Prisoner?” Mingyu laughed at the word, dark and mocking, as he put his free hand on Jeonghan’s body as well. Skimmed it down his chest and stomach - his touch, poisonous and promising, intimate and hated, burned through Jeonghan’s clothes - Jeonghan struggled against his captor, bile rising up in his throat, _please make him stop -_ “As if he would not come willingly to me.” And then his voice lowered, dark, seductive, just as beautiful as Jeonghan remembered, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it. “Wouldn’t you, Jeonghan? You’re mine, aren’t you?”

His lips brushed his skin, breath ghosting his ear - it sent shivers up Jeonghan’s spine, familiar jolts of pleasure through his body, tears to his eyes as he tried, in vain, to free himself. “S-Seungcheol - “

But his husband’s eyes were on Mingyu, every muscle taut, knuckles white as he gripped his rapier. “Never,” he snarled. “Now let him go.”

“Why? So you can fight a battle you will not win?” He released his hold on Jeonghan’s throat only to grip his waist just as tightly, nosing his neck, lips teasing the nape. Where Jeonghan might have welcomed a touch like this months ago - where he longed for this for so long - now it was wrong. Now it felt like barbed wire, scratching through his clothes to the depths of his skin. “How many times must we do this, Vicomte? You will lose to me, always. Give up.”

Tears began to roll down Jeonghan’s cheek as he scrambled for purchase on Mingyu’s gloved hands, content to tear the leather from his skin if that was what it would take. He just wanted to be _free._ “Please,” he begged, “please let me go. Mingyu, just - just let me go.”

He breathed in - and released him.

On shaking, uncertain legs Jeonghan stumbled towards his husband who caught him in his arms, free hand resting on his back, pressing him close. Jeonghan clung to him as best as he could, sobbing into his neck, wanting to claw at his skin to get rid of the feeling of Mingyu’s hands and lips on him. “Seungcheol - “

The ring of a sword being unsheathed sent a shudder of dread through his body and he turned around. Met Mingyu’s hard, dark gaze above the point of his rapier. Just like at the masquerade except for this time there was no one to save them. It was just them, and Mingyu. “Did you honestly think I would let you go so easily, angel?” he said, jaw set firmly. “I will fight for you as long as he will.”

In his heart, Jeonghan knew his words to be true. As long as Seungcheol lived, Mingyu would not give up. As long as Seungcheol breathed, as long as his sweet heart continued to beat - Mingyu would torment him.

As long as Jeonghan was Seungcheol’s, Mingyu would fight.

“Don’t do this,” Jeonghan begged through tears that would not stop. “Mingyu, plea - “

“Stay back, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol said grimly, stepping away from him, closer to Mingyu. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Mingyu smirked as their swords clashed, the ring of it echoing through the silence. It echoed in Jeonghan’s ears, too, to the elegy of the pounding of his heart. “Would you kill me, Monsieur le Vicomte?” he asked, mockingly.

Seungcheol merely stared back with hard eyes. “For Jeonghan, I would do anything.”

“As would I.”

The distance between them was small, yet so much to cross, and Mingyu made the first move. Sword raised in a brisk slash that Seungcheol blocked easily - and then he turned and fled along the back of the mausoleum. To lead Seungcheol on a chase, no doubt.

“Let him go,” Jeonghan pleaded, reaching for his husband’s hand, the one that held his rapier.

But Seungcheol looked back at him with features tinged in sorrow; he had made his decision. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

After a short kiss that left Jeonghan’s heart so heavy with dread, he dashed near the front of the mausoleum to catch Mingyu.

All Jeonghan could do was watch. He felt helpless, paralyzed, as the two men - his husband and his angel - raced down the stairs, swords clashing; as Seungcheol stumbled over the last step, landing in the snow on his hands and knees; as Mingyu towered over him -

But Seungcheol was quick. He hindered Mingyu’s strike once again, rolling out of the way, trying to regain his footing. Heart pounding in his ears, blood no longer iced as it coursed through his veins, Jeonghan hurried down the steps himself. To help, to do something, _anything_ but stand powerless. All he could hear was the clang of blades colliding; snow crunching and skidding beneath boots; enraged snarls and growls that left his hands and legs shaking -

Dodging headstones and uneven ground, Seungcheol lashed out and his blade caught Mingyu in the arm. Blood, a dark wetness against the black coat he wore, dribbled out from the wound. It stained the snow bright crimson as he surged forward - and knocked Seungcheol to the ground.

Jeonghan could barely think; he just _acted._ Raced towards them on legs that couldn’t seem to move fast enough, Mingyu was advancing like a predator after his prey - Seungcheol reached for his sword, fingers grasping helplessly around snow -

And Jeonghan grabbed it. Wrapped his fingers around the handle just in time to block what would have been a fatal blow.

The clash of steel resonated through the cemetery and Jeonghan’s body like the peal of a passing bell and he met Mingyu’s gaze over it. He saw the anger in his black eyes, in the hard set to his jaw, his gritted teeth. He saw the betrayal tinging his features, rage giving way to hurt as Jeonghan stood between him and his revenge.

Finally, he had made his choice.

“Jeonghan, don’t,” Seungcheol choked out beside him, grunting softly as he tried to push himself up.

But all Jeonghan could see was Mingyu. All he could focus on was the way Mingyu looked at him; like… like he wanted to _hurt_ him. How quickly his demeanor could change; how fickle his love was. Jeonghan shivered in the face of such intensity, gripping the sword tighter.

“Did you ever mean it?” he demanded, breath coming out in short, white puffs. “Everything you’ve said to me, everything you’ve told me?”

“Of course I did.” Mingyu’s gaze softened some and for a moment - a brief, haunting moment - he looked like he had all those years ago. Like the angel Jeonghan befriended, the angel he fell in love with. Stars in his eyes, white light that threatened to consume Jeonghan, swallow him up, like it always had. A part of him did not want to fight it; the part of him that took Mingyu’s hand when he’d known in his heart who he was. God, he was tired of fighting. Tired of… of everything. “I love you, Jeonghan.”

He closed his eyes at the words, tears welling up in him once more, borne from the sorrow he carried for this man. For what he allowed himself to become; for the path he chose to take. For what it forced Jeonghan to do. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. I always have. You know that.” His voice was soft now too, appealing to the exhaustion in Jeonghan’s soul, to the love he had carried for so long, so arduously for this man. “Drop the sword, angel. You don’t want to hurt me.”

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol said from somewhere beside him, always, always at his side, “don’t listen to him! Please.”

His tears spilled, racing down his cheeks again - he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe - why was this so hard? Why couldn’t Mingyu just leave him alone? Why did he still have to feel like this?

Why did he have to fail Seungcheol, every single day of their lives?

Why was he not strong enough?

He let go of the sword and fell to his knees, arms wrapped so tight around his midsection as if he’d been struck… oh it felt that way. This gnawing, aching emptiness inside him - it ate away at him, eroding him until there’d be nothing left. It was greater than any mortal wound and he did not know whether to beg or cry or fight or simply let Mingyu have him.

Could it be any worse than this?

He heard the ring of Seungcheol’s sword as it was sheathed again, and then Mingyu’s too.

Peace.

“I won’t kill you here,” Seungcheol said grimly, his voice as dark as Jeonghan had ever known. “Not like this.”

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by Jeonghan’s shuddering breaths, and he forced himself to lift his head. Mingyu watched him with a gaze unreadable, blood still slowly dripping from his sleeve, snow-flecked hair falling into his eyes. There was a holy fire there, Jeonghan could feel it sparking within himself as well - a fire for angels and devils alike. It would destroy them if they allowed it the chance and Jeonghan narrowed his eyes, set his jaw firmly.

Mingyu took a step back. Recoiled.

“Then let it be war,” he uttered, meeting Seungcheol’s eyes with that hellfire, “upon you both.”

This time, when he turned and fled, there was no chasing. No, they were each resigned to their fate now, fates that would be sealed opening night.

Jeonghan was pulled to his feet with a touch he never wanted to be parted from, buried in the warmth of his husband, in the certainty of his love. Any other instance it would have made him cry. But not now; now Jeonghan simply felt numb. Heavy limbs and an aching heart.

He drew back to look Seungcheol in the eyes; blood on his face, snowdrops sticking to his hair - his heart beat so fast against Jeonghan’s chest, he was alive and he was here.

There was no reason for Jeonghan to turn to spirits or angels or phantoms for aid, not with his husband waiting for him always.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, pulling Seungcheol in closer, wishing he could burn Mingyu from his skin, his mind. “I - I don’t know what I was thinking, he just - “

“It’s okay.” Seungcheol kissed his forehead with bloodied lips. “You came back to me, to yourself, and that’s all that matters. It’s okay, darling.”

It wasn’t, of course it wasn’t, but Jeonghan did not want to argue it any further. Not with this fatigue sticking to his limbs, weighing them down. Not with Mingyu’s phantom touch still on him. “Can we go home? Please?”

Seungcheol didn’t fight him. “You might have to get us there. My head’s spinning a bit and I imagine Mingyu’s taken the coach back - “

He squeezed his eyes shut at his husband’s words, at his own careless mistake. How had he not noticed that Mingyu had replaced the coachman? How could he -

“Stop,” Seungcheol whispered, cutting into his thoughts, and Jeonghan pressed against him. “You didn’t know; you were distracted by everything else. Please be gentle with yourself, love. You’ll go mad otherwise.”

Would there ever be a moment when Jeonghan did not feel like thanking god and all the angels in heaven for this man? This man who loved him so purely, when he did not deserve it?

This man who would fight to the literal death for him?

He helped Seungcheol over to Ulrich and then onto the horse, climbing on in front of him. Immediately Seungcheol wrapped his strong arms around him, rested his head on his shoulder blade, and Jeonghan lost himself in the moment.

If he went along with Seungcheol’s plan it was because of him, _for_ him, and no one else. To keep him safe, to try and repay the love he’d given so freely. It would take Jeonghan a lifetime to make up for the debt he kept, but he would start with this.

For them.

So it had to be.

Digging his heels into Ulrich’s side, snapping the reins, they headed back towards town together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys, as always, for reading! i may not ever respond to them (because i suck lmao) but really, comments make my entire day!


	15. fourteen: as my world divides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i didn't realize it'd been two months since i updated this until i checked a few days ago and omg i'm so sorry! i hit a bit of a roadblock here but i should be good from here on out! thank you for your patience!
> 
> in the same vein, i want to dedicate this chapter to aleeyah and naty for always supporting and loving this au, for beta reading and letting me ramble about it. i love you two!! <3
> 
> and here is your chapterly reminder that, while involving real people, this au is a work of fiction!! which means i view said real people as simply characters, and i do not see these characters as accurate reflections of their irl counterparts. they are here simply to fill a role, to tell a story.

**fourteen: as my world divides**

The closer they came to town, the more Jeonghan’s anxiety rose. Mingyu weighed on his mind like he had his hand around it, squeezing and squeezing until Jeonghan could focus on nothing else; his touch still ached against Jeonghan’s clothes, as if it was burned into him. No matter how far they went, no matter how much Jeonghan pushed poor Ulrich, he felt as if they could not get away. How could they, when they headed back to the city and not from it, where Mingyu and the opera house would be waiting for them? How could they, when Seungcheol had spared Mingyu instead of taking his life?

How could they, when Mingyu was all he could think about? Even after everything he’d done?

He’d  _ lied. _ Pretended to be someone he wasn’t, just to get Jeonghan back in his arms, in his grasp. Once again, he’d taken something so precious to Jeonghan and warped it. Stole it for himself, for his own twisted means. First, he’d corrupted the idea of Jeonghan’s father sending an angel to watch over him in his mourning. Then Jeonghan’s desire to have someone be his friend in that cold, lonely opera house. Then the thought that he could achieve all his secret dreams of performing. Then… then someone  _ loving _ him.

The more Jeonghan thought about it, the more it became clear to him.

Everything between him and Mingyu - every touch, every kiss, every word - had been calculated, by design, to get Jeonghan where he wanted him.

To control him.

None of it had been pure or true.

And yet.

Yet Jeonghan still defended him, still could not hurt him even though Mingyu had spent more than a decade hurting  _ him. _

The thoughts - his self-doubt, his insecurity - became too much to bear, swirling in his head and his stomach and his heart until he felt as if he would burst somehow. Before unpaved dirt made way to cobblestone, before leafless trees turned to homes and buildings, Jeonghan tugged on the reins, pulling Ulrich up. Behind him, Seungcheol made a questioning noise but Jeonghan gave it no mind over the churning of his stomach. Somehow he managed to climb off the horse and down onto his hands and knees, everything else a blur as his insides pressed up against his throat. They twisted and seethed inside him; what little breakfast he’d been able to consume a few hours ago threatened to come back up as his mind swam, as his lungs closed up.

Against his palms, the icy ground was so cold it burned.

Somewhere, Seungcheol’s voice sliced through his thoughts like an echo. Soft, ever-present. “Jeonghan,” he said, “darling, it’s okay.” Snow crunched beneath boots as he squatted beside Jeonghan, his hand a comforting weight on his back. But it did not do much to ease Jeonghan’s mind - or his stomach.

Lurching forward, he heaved - but nothing came up.

Again and again.

It was as violent as the fight he’d witnessed; it left him feeling just as broken. Even as his stomach calmed, he still felt  _ sick. _ But he allowed Seungcheol to pull him into his arms, onto his feet. With every breath Jeonghan took - breaths that Seungcheol mirrored with his own chest, pressed against Jeonghan’s back - his mind calmed some. At least to the point where he didn’t feel the need to void his thoughts out of his stomach. Though he trembled nonetheless, grasping Seungcheol’s arms with a grip he knew was too harsh, too tight. It was the only thing that seemed able to ground him.

“I can’t go back,” he whispered, knowing how childish he sounded. A better man than him would be able to return and face what needed to be faced. “Not after this.”

“You have to,” Seungcheol whispered back, against his neck. His warm breath tickled Jeonghan’s skin, and he shivered, the cold around them returning to him in a way that made his body convulse. Seungcheol held him tighter. “I don’t want to push you, love, but… there’s no other way to get rid of him. You know that.”

Through bleary, tear-filling eyes Jeonghan looked towards Ulrich a few feet away, standing so still as if nothing was wrong, and he leaned back into his husband. Squeezed the hands that rested on his stomach. Of course, Seungcheol was right. There was no other choice;  _ he _ had no other choice. If he wanted to be rid of Mingyu - of his lies, his voice, his touch - he knew what he needed to do. But did he have the strength to do it? To risk his freedom, his very  _ life? _ He knew that if Mingyu got his hands on him again… there would be no escape.

Could Jeonghan sing again, though? Sing words Mingyu had written for him? He could only imagine what they were like; Jihoon’s description echoed through his mind from earlier.  _ “Obsessively sexual,” _ he’d muttered with so much distaste. And the thought brought so much dread to Jeonghan’s already fragile mind.

After the cemetery there was no doubt about it: Mingyu was dangerous. Perhaps even… even  _ evil. _ Lying to Jeonghan as he had? Taking advantage of him? And then - then fighting Seungcheol. Trying to kill him, like he had so many times now. In front of Jeonghan’s eyes no less, as if he’d ever be able to forgive him for something so awful.

Yes, they needed to be rid of him.

Jeonghan was not certain he could go through with it, though. He didn’t know if his fear of being near Mingyu would let him.

But… if he did not act, if he did not sing for him… the outcome would be worse, he knew.

Above all, he could not lose Seungcheol. Nor could Seungcheol lose him. And was that not incentive enough?

He turned around and met Seungcheol’s sweet gaze. Kissed his husband softly, warmly and then drew back with a heavy breath.

“I know what I am asking of you, what we  _ all _ are asking of you, is-is burdensome to say the very least,” Seungcheol whispered, “but - “

“But it’s a small price to pay,” Jeonghan finished, with an acrid taste in his mouth, “if it means we can be happy. If… If  _ I _ can be happy.”

“That’s all I want, love, for you to be happy. It’s the least you deserve, after everything you’ve been through.” He kissed Jeonghan’s forehead and sighed, snowdrops still stuck to his hair. “When I married you, I vowed that I would do anything to keep you safe. Whatever it takes. I know you’re scared but I swear to God I won’t let him hurt you. He will not have you again, I promise you, Jeonghan.”

It was a promise he made often; a promise that dripped thick and heavy with weight, with truth. A promise Jeonghan never grew tired of hearing because he knew Seungcheol meant it. He’d  _ proved _ it, time and time again.

Now it was up to Jeonghan to prove the same; that he would do anything to keep Seungcheol safe. To keep him alive.

That he would do anything to keep  _ himself _ safe.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered, a puff of white, cold air.

A soft, sad smile crossed Seungcheol’s lips and he tilted Jeonghan’s head up to place a kiss on his lips. It was another warm kiss and Jeonghan pressed against his husband. How close they could be and yet it never seemed close enough. “I’m so proud of you, Hannie. I know the others will be, too.”

The others. He physically winced as he remembered that morning (it seemed like a lifetime ago now), the way he’d panicked in front of his friends. The way they all  _ stared _ at him, varying degrees of shock and pity on their features, no doubt trying to make sense of everything they’d seen since the masquerade. Perhaps they deserved to know the story; perhaps they did not. But Jeonghan was utterly unwilling to see their faces for the rest of the day. Exhaustion weighed on him so heavily, all he wanted was to curl up in bed with his husband and shut out the world as best as he could. Tend to their wounds, the ones they could see and the ones that could not be healed with bandages or medicine.

“Let’s - let’s just go home,” he whispered.

Once more, he and Seungcheol helped each other onto Ulrich and they set off again, not stopping this time until they reached their estate.

Home was cold when they arrived; Jeonghan ran a hot bath, his mind forcibly blank, as Seungcheol undressed. And then he went to his husband, hands skimming bare skin in search of wounds. Of course he came across the ones Mingyu had given him two nights ago, at the masquerade; the cuts on his bicep and thigh were starting to heal, the skin slowly, slowly stitching itself back together. No doubt they would scar, just like the rest of the injuries Mingyu bestowed upon him… But, as with those other scars, Jeonghan would treasure these too. Once they had healed, he’d kiss them every day, until they were all that remained of the trauma. Until Seungcheol couldn’t remember why he had them in the first place.

They were the extent of the damage, though; all Mingyu had really done to him today was knock him in the face, bloody up his lips. So they both sank into the bath and the warm water together, since there were no wounds to clean first. Silence permeated the room but it wasn’t heavy or harsh; Jeonghan was simply lost in thought and he imagined Seungcheol was, too, as they both had much to ponder.

Jeonghan had agreed to sing. He’d watched Mingyu rip at the last thread holding them together today; watched Mingyu attempt to hurt his husband once more  _ and _ been at his mercy, in his grasp. For the last time.

He couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep living like this. Afraid to sleep because of the phantom in his nightmares, afraid to sing because of the phantom in his head, afraid to breathe because of the phantom in his heart. 

Mingyu didn’t love him, not in the way a person deserved to be loved.

But the man who  _ did _ love him was right here, holding him close in the home they shared, kissing skin he memorized on their wedding night. The man who loved him more than anything else in the world, who had his heart ever since they were five years old, promised that he wouldn’t let anything hurt him. And Jeonghan said he believed him, but now he had the opportunity to show it. To prove that the love he held in return for his husband, for  _ himself, _ was greater than any darkness or any force that tried to tear them apart.

Neither of them spoke until the water was cold, until they were dried off and facing each other in bed, burrowed beneath the covers. Seungcheol lay on his scarred cheek and the dim, winter light pouring through the window behind him framed him like an angel. As if he were sent straight from heaven, here to deliver Jeonghan from the devil and bring him salvation. The light illuminated the stray curly hairs atop his head, the fine ones that dusted his earlobe and neck, and Jeonghan leaned in for a kiss. It tasted of sunlight and blood and snow.

“I’m not letting him hurt me again,” Jeonghan whispered when they pulled back from each other, one of Seungcheol’s hands winding its way into his still-damp hair.

“If there was any other way, you know I’d rather do it,” Seungcheol said, thumb stroking his cheek. “I don’t want to put you in harm’s way but - “

He shook his head. “You won’t. I know you won’t.”

Seungcheol sighed softly, as if he wasn’t convinced, but let the subject drop. It was better this way, Jeonghan decided; the more they discussed it he knew he’d be less inclined to optimism. So he moved closer, close enough that they shared the same pillow, that he could feel Seungcheol’s curly hair against his forehead, and asked a question that’d been tugging at his subconscious for a while now. A question he was, in some way, afraid to hear the answer to, for reasons he could not name.

“Seungcheol, why didn’t you… kill him, in the cemetery? You could have, but...”

It came out a soft whisper, warmed the small space between them as Seungcheol’s eyes closed in thought.

“Because I saw the way you looked at him,” he murmured. “I know what he means to you, even though he’s spent years hurting you.” He opened his eyes and they focused on Jeonghan after a moment; he wondered what they saw now. What they’d seen in the cemetery.

How deep did Jeonghan’s own twisted love run, that it stayed Seungcheol’s hand? How unconditional was it, that it kept him returning long after he should have escaped?

“You hadn’t agreed to the plan yet,” Seungcheol continued, “and I wasn’t certain how much of that was because you didn’t want him to die.”

“I…”

“It’s okay.” He tilted his head up to kiss comfort into Jeonghan’s forehead, comfort he willingly accepted. Hands wrapped around Seungcheol’s wrist as he kept stroking Jeonghan’s cheek. “I’m… I’m not upset about it anymore. I may not understand but I know that he was your closest friend for a long time. I know he took my place when you came here. And the way you feel about him isn’t your fault, so I didn’t kill him. Perhaps I should have but… it would’ve hurt you and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

As he thought about Seungcheol’s words, Jeonghan ever so gently pressed his thumb against his pulse, strong and steady beneath his skin. Everything about Seungcheol was warm, like shrugging on a thick coat in the middle of winter. Like wrapped in blankets before a roaring fire, soothed by the crackle of embers, the snap of flames. His kindness and patience knew no bounds, and Jeonghan was indebted to it, to the stars in his eyes and the sun in his heart. “You - you needed me to realize it all on my own.”

He nodded. “It needed to be your choice and not mine.”

“But how did you know I’d - I’d make the right one?”

“Because you’ve chosen me,” he whispered, “over and over again. I knew, in my heart, that you weren’t fully his. You never have been.”

He was right, or so Jeonghan realized with a soft smile spreading across his lips. How often had he longed for Seungcheol when they were apart? How much of Jeonghan’s time had he taken when they were reunited? Even when Mingyu had had his body, Seungcheol held his heart. Like he had their entire lives.

“I’m not letting you go again,” Jeonghan said softly, closing the distance between them until Seungcheol’s breath joined his, until he could brush kisses against Seungcheol’s chin, across the edges of his scars. “If singing for Mingyu and-and trapping him is what I have to do to make sure we are never parted again, I will gladly do it.”

“Jeonghan…”

His name was a kiss whispered against the corner of his lips, as soft as the shadowy light spilling in through the window; the light that seemed to sanctify Seungcheol with every ray. “You are the greatest, easiest decision I have ever made. You are the love of my life, and it’s time I start acting like it.”

Finally, Seungcheol kissed him. With tears dotting his long lashes, tears that eventually touched Jeonghan’s cheeks, he kissed him; long and slow and deep. It was more than enough to melt in, more than enough to bring hope and serenity to Jeonghan’s fragile mind; hope and serenity he desperately needed.

The company managed to rehearse without Jeonghan present; a feat, really, since he was the lead. But not a soul volunteered to stand in his place. Not even Seungkwan, who’d suddenly - conveniently - found himself content to stay in his supporting role. For once they came across the lyrics Mingyu had written for the object of his obsession, a dark, sour mood had settled upon them all.

Wonwoo himself spent most of the rehearsal with his fists and jaw clenched.

How could Mingyu even  _ think _ this was appropriate?

A tale of two lovers, one a handsome, coveted prince (Jeonghan’s role) and the other a heroic general (Jisoo’s role), as skilled in the bedroom as he was on the battlefield - or so Mingyu had written (Wonwoo wondered if the others caught onto his insecurities as easily as he did). They were kept apart by the prince’s husband, a king loved by all who did not know him. For those who did know him saw his true side: deep, painful jealousy, and a determination to keep his beautiful husband at his side and his side only. He worked to destroy the lover’s affair lie by lie… until he almost succeeded.

Of course, in the end the lovers won; the king’s crushing envy was revealed, his manipulations uncovered, and he was more or less destroyed.

But which ending would reality give to Mingyu; the happy, well-battled fate of his general or the cold, bitter end of his king?

Perhaps thirty minutes into the first read-through, Jisoo had turned from the piano in anger, biting out a strained, “Is he serious with this?”

As Jisoo never expressed anything other than neutrality or, at the most, contentment, his outburst had practically scared the others into silence. Wonwoo himself had merely sighed and met Junhui’s gaze from across the stage. To help Wonwoo’s nerves he’d taken up the task of choreographing the dancers without even needing to be asked, and there he’d been since they began, quietly working during the rehearsal.

But Wonwoo wanted him  _ here, _ at his side. Wanted him close, wanted Junhui to make him feel safe, the way he excelled at. They’d decided, last night, to keep their distance from one another when they were at the opera house. For each other’s safety. Of course, Mingyu did not covet Wonwoo the way he coveted Jeonghan, nor did he hate Junhui the way he hated Seungcheol… but he’d taken his anger out on others before. More times than Wonwoo could count. And he would never be able to live with himself if something happened to his beloved because he’d underestimated Mingyu.

Like Seungcheol had sworn to Jeonghan hundreds of times before, Wonwoo would do anything to keep Junhui safe.

So he’d stayed right where he was and looked from Junhui to Jisoo, sighing as he did so. “We ought to continue.”

“I told you it was terrible,” Jihoon muttered under his breath, close enough to Wonwoo that it must have been on purpose.

And thus, rehearsals went.

When they were over, a soul-crushing ten hours later, Wonwoo all but collapsed into Junhui’s arms. The last of the set pieces had finally been broken down and stored away, the last of the chorus asleep in their dorms upstairs, the last of the stagehands vacated from the premises. Wonwoo and Junhui were alone - well, as alone as two people could be in the opera house. But it was enough.

“We should go home,” Junhui murmured as he came to him; he’d been waiting rather impatiently as Wonwoo had helped the other stagehands. Every time he’d glanced at Junhui in the last hour, his eyes had flitted about. His fingers had twirled against each other. His lower lip had been trapped beneath his teeth. Now the tension in him made itself known in the hard set of his jaw, the stiffness of his hug. He wanted  _ out _ of the theater, out of the hell that threatened to burn them all alive as collateral damage. And Wonwoo could not blame him.

“I have a few things left to do,” he said softly, brushing Junhui’s hair from his lovely eyes, lovely eyes that flashed at his words, “and then we can go, I promise.”

Junhui sighed softly but smiled nonetheless; it touched the edges of his mouth in a gentle curve. “Fine. But then as soon as we get home, it’s straight to bed.”

His hand slipped into Junhui’s easily as they headed backstage, as if his fingers were made to occupy the space between Wonwoo’s. “And sleep?”

“Hardly,” Junhui snorted, staggering their steps rather awkwardly, just to kiss Wonwoo’s cheek, but he welcomed it. The dampness of Junhui’s lips, the warmth of his breath - it slid inside him like a sip of medicine, working to unwind the stress that knotted his every muscle. As did the wicked promise in his words.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked through the opera house, and Wonwoo found that he was much less apt to peer into the shadows when he had Junhui at his side. What did he have to worry about, with such a strong presence beside him? Junhui was enough light to cast away the darkness here, and Wonwoo clung to him. They checked that the dancers were safe and sound in their dormitories; they checked that doors and windows were locked and props were safely, properly stored. Errands that were rather unnecessary but Wonwoo had grown used to doing them over the years; they’d always given him enough time to make sure he was completely alone before going down to see Mingyu.

Now they were just habit.

Or perhaps he was lying to himself and the desire to see Mingyu - a desire he thought he’d snuffed out months ago - haunted him still. That if he stuck around the opera house long enough, Mingyu might come to him. Even though he never had before.

Still holding each other’s hands - and perhaps Wonwoo squeezed Junhui’s a bit too hard every time he thought he saw a ghostly figure in some shrouded corner - they made their way down into the foyer. Wonwoo traced steps he’d been taking for years, steps that would eventually lead him to Mingyu if he continued following them; steps that had originally been forged in the name of chief stagehand and its duties. Taking care of the opera house he called his home when it was closed for the night. For so long it’d been more important to him than almost anything else, and he was loath to see it come to any sort of harm. So he’d taken special care in those early days to make sure it was locked up safe and tight… but even that had become corrupted.

As they walked down the grand staircase together, footsteps echoing off of the glossy marble, a figure met Wonwoo’s eyes. He stood tall in the middle of the foyer, back to them - and the way Junhui stopped dead in his tracks meant the man was  _ real, _ not just a figment of Wonwoo’s imagination, a product of the flickering candlelight around them. Something about him was familiar, in a way Wonwoo did not want to admit. The way he stood, the way he carried himself - all the confidence of a man and the insecurities of a young boy. Wonwoo had watched him grow into it, watched him cultivate this strange mix of assurance and volatility that was, slowly but surely, turning into arrogance. The kind that gods used to punish.

The moment they stopped walking, Mingyu turned around. A strange look crossed his handsome, masked face, as if he’d been expecting someone else. Or perhaps hoping Wonwoo might be alone.

As soon as it passed through his thoughts, Wonwoo chastised himself; not only was he a fool to think that he occupied any portion, however small, of Mingyu’s twisted mind but… why would he want to, when he had Junhui now?

“What are you doing here?” he asked around the lump forming in his throat. It felt like a hand.

Mingyu’s dark eyes, one tinged white and bound by scars, moved between them before settling on Wonwoo. “You don’t come to see me anymore, Wonwoo.”

His voice, always one of the most beautiful sounds Wonwoo had ever heard, was stiff and stilted now. How often had it been, in Wonwoo’s presence, when he’d been too deafened to properly hear? Drowning in whatever slivers of love Mingyu had to offer him, to the point where it filled his ears like water?

Junhui stayed silent, though his gaze was unlike anything Wonwoo had ever seen from him. Doused in an anger that caught the glow of the candelabras around them, he stared at Mingyu with sharp eyes.

It did nothing to help the panic beginning to lace Wonwoo’s blood and he swallowed.

“Why should I?” he asked Mingyu, and his voice wavered in the distance between them. “You’ve been hurting my friends and - and  _ me.” _

Mingyu said nothing for a few moments, choosing instead to walk forward. Slow, heavy steps that seemed as calculated as everything else he did, and Wonwoo wanted to recoil. Wanted to run until his legs gave out, until he couldn’t breathe, until he was lost so that Mingyu couldn’t find him, couldn’t look at him with those dead, dark eyes. But Junhui wasn’t letting him; gripping his arm with hard fingers he kept him in place. Forcing him to face the man that had been the source of both his happiness and his deepest sorrows.

But Wonwoo knew that Junhui wouldn’t let him get hurt.

So he tried to stand tall when Mingyu met them at the bottom of the staircase; tried not to focus on how  _ close _ Mingyu was. He was familiar. His warmth, his height, his broad shoulders and big hands; his mouth and vicious tongue, both of which dripped with the sweetest poison Wonwoo had ever known. It was always so easy to fall back into him and his manipulations, as damaging as they were. Like his body had grown accustomed to breathing dust instead of oxygen. And even with Junhui at his side, the temptation was great. Far too great. It brought tears to his eyes and he felt as if he failed them  _ both, _ somehow.

“Did you forget your promises to me, Wonwoo?” Mingyu whispered, as if Junhui weren’t there. As if he ever cared for Wonwoo with even an ounce of the love Wonwoo held for him. “You said you would never leave me - “

“Things change, Mingyu,” Junhui snapped. He let go of Wonwoo’s arm and moved to stand between them, suddenly looking so small despite being no more than a couple inches shorter than Mingyu. Perhaps it was because of the panicky haze in Wonwoo’s mind that made this all seem like a hallucination. Perhaps it was the dangerous look in Mingyu’s eyes now, wicked and unrelenting as they took in the man standing between him and what he wanted.

The man who, like Seungcheol, was not afraid of him.

“How do you know that name?” Mingyu asked through gritted teeth.

“You know how,” Junhui retorted, “and you’re not hurting him anymore. I won’t let you.”

Like a dream he couldn’t quite place, a nightmare tinged with smoke, Wonwoo remembered the masquerade. Remembered how still Jeonghan stood when Mingyu came, as if he’d been paralyzed by the very look in his eyes. Even with his husband at his side, he’d been rendered speechless. Wonwoo had looked on silently, unable to truly understand  _ why. _ Why he did not move, why he did not try to protect himself or his lover. But now, standing in Jeonghan’s place, he figured it out. It was the fear of getting hurt, the fear of making it all worse; the distorted love he still held for the man that swore to love him back, whose words did not match his actions.

Now, Wonwoo could only watch, as if this was a play put on for his misery, as Mingyu and Junhui stared each other down.

“Why do you care about him?” Mingyu finally asked, breaking the silence.

And Wonwoo heard what he didn’t say;  _ no one has ever cared about him before. _ He knew it was why Mingyu was able to keep him under his thumb for as long as he had.

The person he never thought he could lose was slipping from his grasp. So was Jeonghan.

“You can’t goad me into playing your games, phantom,” Junhui said, reaching behind him to grasp at Wonwoo’s hand, a touch he welcomed with a silent sigh of relief that did nothing to calm him. “Now leave.”

Mingyu laughed, a dark sound that Wonwoo felt in his bones. “This is  _ my _ opera house. And I know of your little plan to get rid of me; it’s not going to work. Jeonghan would never hurt me the way you’re asking of him. Not when he still loves me as much as he does.”

Where words such as those used to fill Wonwoo with sadness because he  _ longed _ to be the object of such affection, now he recognized them for the insanity that they were. He knew that they would be the death of Mingyu.

“You’re delusional,” Junhui spat. “Jeonghan doesn’t love you, neither does Wonwoo - “

“Oh but that’s a lie, isn’t it?”

Something in his voice was enticing, inviting, and Wonwoo returned to himself. He looked up at Mingyu, at the fractures in his eyes, and felt as if he’d been gutted with a dull, rusty knife. Because Mingyu was  _ right. _ For all of his flaws, for all of the sins he committed, Wonwoo still loved him.

“You know you don’t love Junhui,” Mingyu murmured, as if determined to kill him where they stood, “not like you love me. Like I love  _ you.” _

“That’s enough,” Junhui snapped but his words reached Wonwoo’s ears muffled, as if he were under water. Drowning.

Mingyu loved him.

No he didn’t. Or... perhaps he did.

The unscarred corner of Mingyu’s lips turned up in a slight smirk. “How could you love him truly, when you’ve only known him for a few months? But you’ve known me for almost your whole life, haven’t you? Loved me for as long as you can remember.”

Wonwoo felt the weight, the  _ truth _ of Mingyu’s words resonate within his heart, in a part of himself he thought he’d locked away forever, the moment he kissed Junhui’s perfect mouth.

Junhui uttered a rough sound, something like a snarl, and it was enough to redirect Wonwoo’s attention to the slender hand bracing itself against Mingyu’s chest, as if it meant to push him away. But it never got the chance; Junhui was on the floor before Wonwoo could even move, and the sound of his body, his  _ head, _ hitting the marble staircase echoed through Wonwoo’s mind. It was a sound he would never forget, as long as he lived, because he had caused it. His own weakness, his own selfishness.

But it brought everything into focus, cutting through the haze that blinded him.

He saw Mingyu for what he truly was.

“I loved the child I knew back then,” he bit out, kneeling down to cradle Junhui in his arms; he was greeted by a broken groan and half-closed eyes, fingers curling in his shirt. It brought tears to his eyes and he looked away, from Junhui, from Mingyu, from every single mistake he had ever made because he wasn’t strong enough to face them. “But I don’t - I  _ can’t _ \- love the man in front of me, because he hurts me and the people that matter most to me, and he isn’t the boy I fell in love with anymore. He hasn’t been, in so long.”

For what felt like ages, Mingyu did not speak, and Wonwoo could feel his gaze burning into him with all the righteous anger Mingyu did not deserve to feel. But Wonwoo didn’t  _ care, _ not with Junhui in his arms like this. Shoved to the ground so carelessly by the man who claimed to love Wonwoo. And love meant not hurting those your lover cared about, didn’t it?

Once again, Mingyu’s words did not match his actions.

“Please leave,” Wonwoo whispered, and his voice broke with the emotion, the tears, weighing it down. “Please, Mingyu. If you ever cared about me, even once…”

“You’ll regret this,” Mingyu said, low and threatening, grating against every edge of Wonwoo’s heart. “And someday you’ll realize how much you need me, and so will Jeonghan.”

Breathing in, Wonwoo finally looked up at him, at the man that was such a stranger to him now. Gone was the light in his eyes, the light that losing his parents and his home hadn’t been able to snuff out. Gone was the innocence that Wonwoo gave up his happiness to protect so long ago. All that was left was the shell of a person, so far gone that Wonwoo was almost certain nothing could bring him back. “I hope you don’t truly believe that,” he whispered, “for your sake.”

Mingyu looked away, swallowing heavily.

“You don’t have to do this,” Wonwoo said, stroking Junhui’s hair from his eyes. “I know you don’t want to hurt people, you’re not the monster they say you are - “

“Why shouldn’t I be?” His voice was harsh and it glanced off of Wonwoo’s ears the way an object clattering to the ground would. “I  _ look _ like one, they told me all my life - “

“But you’re not bad, Mingyu.” He thought about the little boy waiting for him in the streets of Paris that night, so long ago, covered in the blood of the child that abused him. He thought about the tears in his eyes, the nightmares he’d had for weeks that left him clinging to Wonwoo in bed and sobbing into his neck. He thought about the young man that just wanted to be loved by the pretty blond boy that thought he was an angel. Where had it all gone wrong? “You’re - you’re…”

He thought about the young man that injured one of the dancers during rehearsal, because he’d been Jeonghan’s first kiss. He thought about the monster that tried hurting Seungkwan countless times, that scarred up Seungcheol’s face, that killed Taewoo for no reason; the blood and destruction he’d been leaving in his wake over the years.

_ Bad _ people did those things.  _ Mingyu _ did those things.

He scoffed, a sorrowful sound. “You don’t even believe what you’re saying.”

“I - “

“Jeonghan loves me,” he said, with as much conviction as Wonwoo ever heard from him; it broke his heart. “I know he does.”

“Why him?” Wonwoo whispered, even though he already knew the answer. But he had to hear it from Mingyu himself. “Out of all the people that could have loved you, that  _ do… _ why him?”

Mingyu looked away again, and all Wonwoo could see was the mask. Though his eyes shone in the fading candlelight… as if he was crying.

“I need him,” he said. “And I know he needs me, too. He  _ has _ to.”

Wonwoo didn’t know what to make of his words, of the fantasy Mingyu allowed himself to believe so desperately until he thought it reality… so he didn’t say a word. He just watched Mingyu leave, back into the shadows he’d come from.

Only then did Wonwoo break.

He sobbed as he held Junhui close, and the ache of hopelessness made him feel as if he’d been skinned raw. As if someone had reached into his chest and torn out his heart, leaving him with nothing. He sobbed as Junhui wound forgiving fingers into his hair, as he whispered absolving comforts into his ear. But Wonwoo did not deserve them. Even if Junhui said he did.

“It’s not your fault” and “I’m not hurt, I’m okay”.

“You’re not responsible for him” and “Love, please stop crying, please”.

Every time, Wonwoo shook his head, wetting Junhui’s skin with his tears - and it took Junhui forcing his head up, forcing him to look at him, to make him stop crying. It took all of the devotion in his lover’s eyes to calm him down… but once he met Junhui’s gaze he could not look away.

They didn’t speak much as they stood up, as Wonwoo checked him over for injuries (indeed, there were none, and Wonwoo thanked whatever deity was listening that he didn’t have to clean Junhui’s blood from the opera house floor too; Seungcheol’s had been enough). They didn’t speak on the walk home, they didn’t speak as they undressed for bed - what could be said that wouldn’t hurt either of them more? What could be said that wouldn’t break Wonwoo into pieces again? What could be said that would make any of it better?

The Mingyu that Wonwoo knew, the Mingyu he loved, was gone - and he’d sealed his fate the moment he hurt Junhui.

There was no going back now.

They would go on with the show, with Seungcheol’s plan, and Wonwoo would support it. He had to, for Junhui’s sake. For Jeonghan’s. For Seungcheol’s. For his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))))

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/scoups__ahoy) | [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/scoups__ahoy)


End file.
